


how long before you hurt for me

by PoemIsDead



Category: JackSepticEye (YouTube RPF), Markiplier (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Biting, Branding, Choking, Cutting, Forced Orgasm, Forced Self-harm, Fucked Up, Graphic depictions of all tags, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, LATER, M/M, Psychological Torture, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Self-Sacrifice, Seriously guys, Torture, Violence, Whipping, a surprising amount of fluff for the tags, also some fluffy smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-02-13 17:38:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12989085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoemIsDead/pseuds/PoemIsDead
Summary: Dark has waited a long time for his revenge. And when he finally gets his own body, he's determined to destroy everything his former host loves.-----TRIGGER WARNING: This fic has explicit and graphic depictions of a lot of fucked up things.Pleaseread the tags.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you coming from any of my other fics - this is **_not_** like them. This is my misery fic. It's pure torture, and while it has a lot of love and feels, and will have some fluff smut, it's mostly filled with awfulness. This is my safe space for the fucked up shit my head occasionally comes up with. Tread with caution.
> 
> I will continue updating my other fics throughout writing this (they're fluffy and wholesome, use them for soul bleach), so please stay with them if the thoughts of **rape** , **torture** , **extreme sadism** , and **misery** are not appealing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have a few chapters of this knocking around on my computer, and it should probably never see the light of day, but I've started editing it and figured I'd post it. Probably been done a few times by now, but meh, I like(?) writing it. PLEASE be warned, there is a lot of awful shit in here, and I swear I'm not this horrible, but I have a very wide palette, and my other fic is so fluffy . . . just . . . enjoy?
> 
> Also, thank you to [Rickster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rickster/pseuds/Rickster) for putting the song in the title in my head, and I'm so sorry I'm dirtying it ;___;
> 
> \-----
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: This fic has explicit and graphic depictions of a lot of fucked up things. _Please_ read the tags. (again)

His body trembled as he stood in the frigid room, arms outstretched, face turned upward, eyes closed and mouth pulled wide. He could feel the cold seeping into his skin, could feel it burrowing into him like termites through wood, crawling and scratching and digging, and he groaned into silence, his shudders having nothing to do with the temperature.

He was _real_. For the first time, in so very long, he was himself. His own body, his own skin, _freedom_ flooding through him like a sickness, and he wanted to scream into the darkness, wanted to shake the world, bring the night to its knees. And he could. Oh, he knew he could. He could feel the power rushing through him, could feel the way his whole body _burned_ and cracked with his strength, simmering, boiling, just beneath the surface.

His heavy breath was the only sound in the room, silence hanging dense around him like an old friend. No hum, no whispers in the dark, no fears and wants and emotions running rampant through his heart like some wretched disease. He was free of it. Truly, free of it. Each gasping breath felt like a new victory, his own choice, his own volition driving each inhale, each exhale. He could stop any time he wanted to. He could scream, growl, whisper. He could go anywhere, he could do anything he wanted.

The musky air had never smelled so sweet.

And as he stood there, his body thrumming with anticipation, with sheer, exhilarating, _joy_ , he felt that hunger rise in his gut, roaring through him, white hot. He reveled in it, knew it would fill him, settle into his bones as deeply as a cancer, ready for the drive it would instill. This was _his_ hunger. His life. His new world.

His hands shook as he brought them slowly in front of his face, his eyes devouring the site of them, the way they obeyed him, like they always should have. Big, and rough, and powerful. Trembling. His foot snapped forward, dragging his body forward, one hand coming up to steady himself against the cold stone wall as he leaned into the bleak light.

The mirror was dusty, old, smudged. But he could still see it. The face. _His_ face now, deep brown eyes looking back at him from under a dark fringe, olive skin looking paler, his crooked grin looking broken. His other hand came up to press against the gritty surface, his face coming closer, examining the lines in his skin, his dark lashes, hungry eyes.

 _"Oh, Mark . . ."_ he purred to the face. His fingers stilled against the surface of the mirror, the shaking leaving as suddenly as it had come, and he pressed, just slightly, so gentle, and watched the silver glass shatter beneath him, cracking across his visage.

So easy. He could feel the pleasure rush through him, sweet and delicious, powerful like he hadn't been in years. He could taste it, the cloying, saccharine taste of the justice laid out before him. It was here. In his hands. He'd waited so long, been so _patient_. And now, finally, here was his reward.

Another shudder of pleasure rippled through him, and he chased it, his back arching and his breath coming out as a deep groan behind pressed lips.

He was going to enjoy breaking him.

\-----

The smell was what woke him. He was in deep, that sleep that kind of stuck to you like a bog, warm and dark and so hard to pull out of. Easier to just sleep. But that _smell_. It was sharp, acrid. Wrong. His mind was stirring, responding, knowing that scent shouldn't be in his room, or anywhere near him, trying to protect him from whatever danger it may mean. Fire, or sickness, or death, or something. He didn't know the smell, didn't recognize it. Just knew it shouldn't be there.

Then he felt the cold, seeping into bare skin. His body shivered, jerking a little against the hardwood under his hands. Which was also wrong. He was . . . sitting. Not in his bed. In a chair? Where was his blanket? Where was he?

Even despite the alarming wrongness, Mark was slow to stir. The oblivious blackness of sleep was still singing a siren song in his head, and his alarm wasn't going off, so it wasn't time to get up yet. He could just sleep a little longer, and figure it out whenever he woke up.

But his neck. Fuck, it hurt. He needed to move it, needed to shift positions because this one hurt, _a lot_. He was sitting upright(ish), his head drooped down, his poor neck screaming to move, and Jesus, his head hurt too, throbbed, and he could taste something bitter and metallic in his mouth.

Mark's eyes finally cracked open, the world starting to come into focus around him, his mind struggling to catch up. He was staring down at his own jeans, an older pair, rough and muddy, and there was a fresh tear on the knee. His eyes darted to his right, brows furrowing as he took in the worn wood of the chair arm, his bare arm laid across it, the pale leather wrapped around his wrist, the chain attaching it to the metal ring embedded in the wood-

Fear has a way of chasing every bit of sleep from one's mind, like shadows from a floodlight. Instinctual terror gripped his chest as his slow mind grasped what he was staring at, and suddenly he was sure he'd never sleep again, because he was currently _definitely_ tied to a chair, and _what the fuck was going on_.

"Good morning."

Mark froze, and the new fear turned to ice in his stomach, shooting through him, locking him in place as his breath stilled in his throat, absolute and utter dread driving all coherent thought from his mind.

The words were so slow, careful, controlled, drawn delicately from his lips like whispered sentiments from a lover, crooning and low. Only it wasn't love boiling under the surface of the words, it wasn't love fueling the groaning pleasure in that voice, it wasn't love he knew he'd see in those burning eyes if he looked up. Because he knew that voice. He knew that voice better than his own. It haunted his dreams, chased him through his nights, whispered to him in the silence of his bedroom.

"Dark."

His voice broke on the name, rough, jagged, the terror raw in his throat. His demon. _Nightmare_. Powerful, hungry, cruel Dark. He hadn't heard him in so long. He'd kept him at bay for so long. He'd thought . . . maybe . . . he was rid of him. So quiet these last few months, easy and comfortable, and he didn't have to deal with the maniac, and he'd naively let himself believe, just maybe, it was over, that he was free of this creature, that he had beat it, or it had moved on, and it wasn't his problem anymore.

But that was his voice. And his body knew him, his heart racing in panic at the sound of him. And this was still so _wrong_ , and he didn't understand, because Dark's voice hadn't been in his head, or through a speaker, it had been right in front of him, and no, _no, NO_ . . .

Mark's head moved without thought, jerking up, the pain from his neck lancing through him as brown eyes locked on the figure before him.

It was him. Familiar face, dark hair, dark suit, dark eyes, dark soul, _Dark_. Control and fury and need wrapped into one creature, and looking down at him, his expression enraptured, hungry eyes burning with cruel joy, and Mark trembled before him. He didn't understand. Dark was trapped, trapped in him as it were, and he couldn't escape. Not like this. He could only take his body, when he hoarded his strength for long enough, when he waited for the perfect moment. And he couldn't keep it long. Mark had learned how to control him, had gotten better at it with each passing year. He hadn't slipped up in so long. He'd done everything he was supposed to. And yet, here he stood, his own body, _free at last_.

Mark could feel the night crushing in around him at the thought.

"Did you miss me?" the slow, careful voice crooned to him, and Mark's eyes went to his lips, the way they arched sharply with his words, the sharp control over boiling energy, and he knew they wanted to do more than speak softly.

The shock was slipping past, numb fear evaporating as he slowly realized. Dark was real. He had his own body. And he had Mark at his mercy - the center of all of his hate, the one man who had kept everything from him, who had held him captive inside his own body, who had stolen everything from him. He was his now, and there was no doubt in Mark's mind that he would not live past this encounter.

The thought was strangely quiet as he felt his heart flutter, wondering how many beats he had left.

"How?" His voice still sounded broken, and he heard Dark take a long breath, drawing air in greedily through flared nostrils, a low rumble of pleasure in his throat as he looked down at his vulnerable captive.

"Oh Mark." And then he laughed, high and cruel, and the shudder that went through Mark felt like electricity. "You know I'd do _anything_ for you. To get to you. To _touch_ you, with my own hands. To . . . reward you, for _everything_ you've done for me."

He was going to die. And not quickly. Dark would torture him. Would tear him apart, peel back his layers and shred him, and he would scream himself hoarse before he died. He knew him. He'd had the man in his head before, tasted the rage and twisted pleasures that fueled him, he knew him as well as he knew himself. He knew what he could do.

"I've been waiting . . . so long . . . for this." Cold fingers carded their way through his hair, gentle but firm, running down to press against his head, his neck, down his shoulders, squeezing ever so lightly. Mark shuddered, but didn't pull away.

He was going to die. And he wasn't nearly as terrified as he should have been. It wouldn't be pretty. He wouldn't just slip away in his sleep. He was going to suffer, and there was no guarantee of how long Dark would drag it out, how long he would keep him alive to enact his revenge until he finally put him out of his misery. And he was scared. He really was. He didn't want to die.

But he was also strangely . . . ready. No more fighting him. No more fear. No more late night stress as he made sure his friends and family were taken care of, and happy. No more struggling to keep up his goofy face for his fans, no more strain to be entertaining, or funny. No more keeping up airs. Just . . . freedom. Dark had found his, now now he was going to give Mark his own.

"Dark," he started, his voice a shaky murmur, fear lingering there like dust in an old house - expected and unimportant. He opened his mouth, not knowing what he was going to say. Plead, probably. He had to, had to at least try. He was ready, but he wasn't going to give the demon the satisfaction of submitting quietly. He would try to fight, try to think his way out of this, try to come up with some way to beat the creature, to destroy him, or put him back where he belonged. It was probably useless. But he was going to try.

And then something caught his eye. A patch of blue, just behind Dark, hidden by his simmering frame. It was only a moment, a flash as Dark shifted his arm, his broad shoulders blocking his view again in a second, but Mark recognized it, with a kind of dread certainty, like he'd known it would be there.

Someone was behind Dark. Someone wearing blue jeans, and sitting down with their knees splayed out. Someone who was limp, probably unconscious. Another captive.

The fear that had started to recede twisted through his gut wildly, and his voice hitched up loudly, panicky breaths taking over as this new realization settled in. Dark had someone else, some other poor soul at his mercy, someone who didn't deserve the terrible things he was going to inflict on them, some innocent caught in the crossfire.

" _No_ ," he hissed out, before he even knew what he was doing, his eyes fixed over the figure's shoulder, trying desperately to see what the beast had hidden back there, the fear and desperation slowly devouring him. He might have been ready to die at his hands. He wasn't ready to watch someone else.

How stupid he was to think that would be all it was.

"What did you do?"

Dark's lips curled back in a smile, a grin, malicious and joyful, and it tore into Mark like a knife, his body shaking as he pulled against his restraints. He was going to hurt other people. Of course he was - he was a demon of misery, a creature of pain and pleasure, and he was free now. Because Mark hadn't been strong enough, or smart enough, to keep him contained. However he had managed this, it was _his fault_ , and now people were going to suffer, maybe people he loved-

"What did you _do_?" And there was true fear in his voice, and he didn't want to know, wanted Dark to snap his neck and let him leave this world without knowing because no matter what, it was going to be terrible, and he wasn't strong enough for this.

But the demon only smiled at him, that hunger in his eyes, as he gripped his shoulder tight, and slowly, carefully, stepped around to stand behind him, giving him a clear view of the man in the chair opposite him.

He was bound the same way, pale wrists wrapped in old leather, chains pinning him to his chair, a line of bruises across his collarbone. Duct tape glinted across his mouth, just visible peeling up his cheek on his slumped form, under a shock of green hair, and Mark wanted to weep, his arms snapping against his restraints as he craned uselessly towards his friend, the raging fear running rampant through him narrowing down into a single focused chant, desperate and ragged, _not him, not him, not him, not him . . ._

And now he did sound truly and utterly broken, as he gasped out the name that his world had narrowed around.

" _Jack._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be very slow to update, since I have to be in the right mood to even edit it, but if people like it, I'll keep at it :)


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually already had this one edited, so I figured I might as well post it now. Again, please don't get used to fast updates on this - I really have to be in the right mood to work on it, and I'd like to make it not awful . . . or like . . . not the wrong kind of awful.
> 
> Thank you so much for the awesome comments and love I've gotten so far - I really appreciate it!
> 
> \-----
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: This fic has explicit and graphic depictions of a lot of fucked up things. Please read the tags. Chapter specific warnings in the end notes.

Dark's body thrummed with pleasure, lighting up in ways he hadn't been _allowed_ to feel in so long, as he greedily drank in the sight of Mark, body straining against his bonds, voice breaking so beautifully over his name. He had waited so _patiently_ for this, planned for so long, took his time, knowing it would be worth it. And god, was it. Even without his hunger, his need, he would have found his despair delicious.

Mark. Goofy, earnest, _sweet_ Mark. The man who held the demon at bay and told no one, who suffered in silence, and took every opportunity to help those around him, to make them happy and brighten their days. The man who enjoyed playing the fool to make others laugh. Who took genuine pleasure in helping. The man who joked through his pain, even as Dark ate away at him from the inside.

And the man who loved his friend, more than anyone else in the world. The man who longed for him in that sickening saccharine way that made Dark want to dirty him up, defile him and break him apart until he was stripped of everything Mark loved.

That it had been _this_ man that held him had been almost more than he could bear.

But that was over now. He was free of that wretched flesh, free of the longing and the pining, free of the naive _goodness_ he was. He was the master now, both his tormentor and the object of his affection at his mercy, and all the time in the world.

He could not have had a sweeter gift.

His eyes traced the lines in Mark's shoulders as he strained against his bonds, fixated on the green-haired man, shaking, distraught. Dark's fingers bit into his skin as he held him back, knowing the shackles of the chair could do it for him, but wanting to feel the strain in his body with his own hands. Already shaking. Already miserable. Just at the vague _idea_ of what might be to come.

Because Mark wasn't so naive. He couldn't miss the situation he was in, couldn't ignore the hatred he knew Dark held for him, or Dark's . . . _cruel_ tendencies. He had to have an inkling of what was coming. And he was powerless to change it.

"Don't worry, Mark," he purred into his ear, pressing his face close, letting his hot breath wash over his neck as he watched the way his face contorted in misery. "I won't kill him."

Mark's eyes shot to him, terror swimming in those brown pools, his voice cracking despite the strength in it as he begged.

"Let him go," he rasped, bright eyes burning into him, wide and pleading, and oh, so pretty. "Please, Dark, don't do this, let him go."

Dark was laughing as he stepped away, releasing Mark's shoulder as he prowled slowly towards his other captive, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He could feel the urgency behind him as he walked, could feel Mark's eyes burning into him, the waves of desperation crashing against his back as he got closer and closer to the vulnerable frame.

"Dark, _please_."

He looked rather small in the chair, despite their similar heights. Not so much thin as lean, but without his strong posture, slumped in the old chair, he lacked any intimidation his lithe frame might lend him. His hair was flipped over into his eyes, green and messy, longer than he used to keep it, and Dark stretched out a hand to oh so delicately trace his fingers through it, relishing the rough feel where the dye had burnt it out.

"Please, he didn't do anything."

Mark's voice was breaking now, so desparate and raw, and without even turning around he knew what he'd look like - muscles tensed and straining, eyes wild, mouth open and trembling. He'd imagined looking on that face for _years_ now, pictured it in the rare lucid moments he had, fantasized about watching him crumble in dispair, beg so sweetly for him as he broke his bones and tore him apart.

But just then, he couldn't tear his eyes from the person in front of him.

Because Mark wasn't exactly right. Jack hadn't done anything, sure. Not on purpose, anyway. Certainly nothing directed against Dark - he didn't know of Mark's closest kept secret. But his very existence was enough to make him hate him.

Because Mark loved him.

Not like a friend loved a friend, or the general love one might feel for another. Not even some stupid crush, or just sexual attraction. Mark's feelings had grown over time to encompass a full, rich love, like one might feel with a spouse. Only, he never told Jack. Or anyone for that matter. Only Dark knew of his infatuation, his lonely pining, his secret obsession. Because despite how much the little shit craved his Irish friend, how much he longed for him, to touch him and talk to him and share _everything_ with him, he also wanted - more than anything - for Jack to be happy. And in his mind, that didn't include a gay relationship with his long-distance American friend.

Dark was sick of it. He _hated_ his host - _former_ host - for this, hated the way he'd been made to suffer through all the sweet thoughts and loneliness, the strange swings of happiness he got just from seeing the Irishman smile, the _stupid_ determination not to get Jack mixed up in him, because he was somehow dirty, or broken, or not what he needed.

The satisfaction of having brought him into this, despite his host's best laid plans, was more delicious to him than anything he'd ever tasted before.

" _Please._ " It was a whisper now, quiet and raw and exquisite. "It's me you hate, Dark, I . . . I'm the one . . . I'm the one who's done _everything_ , _please_ , just let him go, and you can keep me. I'll do whatever you want, I _swear_."

Dark let the ecstatic smile creep up his face as he took a slow breath, his hand slipping from the Irishman's hair down to his cheek, pressing it there, relishing the different textures - rough beard, smooth skin, slick duct tape. He didn't turn around when he purred his answer.

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Why do you want him?"

Mark's voice was a little stronger now, still rough and shaking, but there was an edge creeping into it that had Dark's metaphorical hackles raising, even as he smiled. He was going to be so fun to break.

"Oh Mark," he sighed as he brought his other hand up to cradle his face, lifting him properly so he could see the pretty bruise across one cheek. He was still out cold, limp in his hands, but still radiating heat like a furnace. Dark wondered how fast he'd cool as the blood drained from him.

"Don't touch him!" Now his voice held a bite to it, louder, hissed through angry teeth as Mark found his strength again. Of course it would be in the little Irishman. He'd seen the defeat in his eyes as he realized where he was, realized who's fingers he was under, realized how inevitable his death was. If he was on his own, there was no doubt in Dark's mind that he would be broken in days, if not hours, completely useless, just a shell of the man he was. But with the object of his affection in mortal peril . . .

"I'm going to do so more than touch him," Dark told him, his lips wrapping around the words in rapture as he slowly sank down, crouching to stand at eye level with the unconscious man, looking at him as if he could see right through his lids to the bright orbs underneath. Dark did not share his love for the creature. But he did see beauty in him, in his pale skin, so pretty against the bruises and blood, in his slim frame, so easy to break. In the bright eyes he knew were hidden from them, and how stunning they would look as he drained him of everything that made him _him_.

He turned to look back at Mark then, and he knew what he looked like. His fingers still pressed into the skin of Jack's face, holding him there as he looked over his shoulder. His eyes wide, and a touch wild, his mouth split into that broken grin, nostrils flared, and he could see his bangs bouncing out of the corner of his eye. He must be shaking with the excitement.

"I'm going to break him, Mark. I'm going to tear him down, piece by piece, slowly. I'm going to find all the ways he can scream, all the different pleas he can make, as I carve my name into his back, as I split his skin apart. I'm going to watch him cry until his eyes have nothing, watch him writhe and beg as I do what you _always wanted_ and fuck him until he bleeds and sobs and I paint his insides with _filth_."

Mark's eyes were wide with horror, open-mouthed and riddled with fear and disgust, and Dark grinned wider, taking a deep breath of the sweet air, tasting his freedom and revenge and that delicious flavor of his misery, relishing the way his body shuddered with pleasure at the tang.

"And I'm going to do it right here, Mark," he murmured, locking brown eyes to chocolate, the wicked desire clear in his face. "Right in front of you. I'm going to make you watch as I take everything you were too cowardly to claim. And he can look you in the eyes as I do, and know that _everything_ is _your fault_."

He rose slowly, one hand releasing the warm cheek to reach out and brush back Mark's dark bangs, relishing the way his eyes bore into him with hatred and fear and despair.

"Do you think he'll beg you to kill him?"

The rage was starting to block out everything else in those earthy eyes. It looked wrong on his face, alien and unpracticed, like he wasn't sure how to make the expression, and Dark wanted to laugh, high and cruel. Instead, he simply leaned a little closer, never releasing his hold on the Irishman's cheek.

"Or maybe he'll like having a man that finally takes what he wants."

There was real rage in Mark's voice when he spoke next - not the over-the-top screamy rage he put on for fans when he played his stupid games, but genuine, boiling anger, the kind of fury that could fuel you to do the most vile of things. He sounded like a different person as he glared up at his captor.

"I'll kill you."

Dark laughed at that, amused at the simplicity of his threat.

He wanted to revel in Mark's expression, to bask in it like a snake in the sun for hours. The pain and anger, so fresh and hot and raw and exquisitely bare, so pretty. He should paint a picture, hang it on the wall like the piece of art that it was.

But he could only indulge in it for a moment, before he felt the green-haired man shift in his grasp, and he sighed in delight, his eyes bright and malicious, and happier than he had ever been.

"Mmm, maybe we should ask him," he purred, before slowly turned to stand over the stirring man, releasing his grip on Mark to press his hand back against the rough cheek, holding his face like a lover and waiting as his eyes slowly fluttered open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions/threats of violence, torture, and rape


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, wtf is wrong with me.
> 
> \-----
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: This fic has explicit and graphic depictions of a lot of fucked up things. _Please read the tags._ Chapter specific warnings in the end notes.

Mark had never felt so helpless in his life, never felt so powerless and hopeless and desperate as he watched Dark holding Jack's face, that terrible smile just visible, as his captive stirred in his hands. Mark wanted to leap to him, to squeeze himself between the two, use his bulky frame for the only thing it was good for now, as a shield for the innocent man trapped in this sick game.

He'd been so _careful_ , so very careful, to make sure Jack never hurt because of him. He took his time, he was patient, he was a good friend. He joked and he played and he made sure that the Irishman only ever enjoyed their time together, chasing away discomfort like a witch hunt and giving him anything he wanted, just to see him smile, and laugh that giddy laugh of his, pure and bright and honest and sweet. He never told him, no matter how much he struggled, never told him about the horrors he faced in his dreams, never told him about the demon that walked his mind, never told him of the constant fight, because it would only hurt him.

And he'd been happy. Everyone said you couldn't hold it in and be happy, but Mark _had_ been happy, because _Jack_ had been happy, and that was all he needed. His life was good, he had good friends, he had a dream job, he had fans that loved him, he had Jack, and he didn't need to share the pain. It wasn't too much. He could handle it. He _did_ handle it, he was strong enough to do it himself, and he'd succeeded for so long.

But it was all of it pointless now. Every smile, every lie, every struggle, because he'd fucked up. He'd slipped, gotten weak, failed in the singular task he had given himself in his life, and he was powerless to fix it now, tied to a chair, so close, so very close, and unable to do anything as Jack's eyes fluttered open.

Something inside Mark wished he'd stay asleep forever, that he would never open those pretty baby blue's to the sight before him, that he'd sleep through it and let Mark bare the brunt alone, because he deserved _none_ of what was coming. But there was no stopping it now, he was waking up, those pretty eyes darting around him as confusion slowly took over his face.

Mark had never understood the term "impotent rage" better than he did as he watched Jack's brow bunch together, looking up at Dark with that innocent expression, a little noise caught by the tape across his mouth, as he tried to understand. And it wasn't _fair_. Jack hadn't done _anything_. He didn't deserve this. But here he was, wide eyes looking up at Dark as he cradled his face in a parody of gentleness, smiling down at him with that broken smile, and Mark wanted him to _burn_. He'd light the match himself, douse him in gasoline and listen to every scream if he needed to.

The thought was so startlingly violent, and yet he didn't blanch from it, squared his shoulders, knowing he could do it if he got the chance, because _he was going to hurt Jack_.

"Good morning," Dark purred to his captive, softer than his greeting to Mark, quieter, steadier, almost tender. But there was still that undercurrent there, the excitement and vicious energy boiling just beneath the surface. It was wrong, not the voice Mark usually used, and there was an odd quality to the syllables, nothing clear enough to put a name to, but just an underlying _wrongness_ , and Mark knew Jack could hear it, saw the way he turned his head, leaning away from the touch, the confusion open and plain on his face.

He had no idea. He was just sitting there, so placid, just trying to understand, maybe thinking it was a game or something, and waiting, because it was Mark's face looking down at him, and he _trusted_ him, and god, he had fucked this up _so badly_.

"Jack."

His voice was raw as he called to him, as broken as Dark's smile, and he swallowed, pressing his arms uselessly against his restraints as he watched Jack turn his eyes on him, that perplexed expression turning to bewilderment, eyes wide as he flicked between them.

God, what this must look like. Mark trapped, tied to the chair, knowing he was sporting bruises to match Jack's, hair disheveled, eyes wild and sad and desperate as he leaned towards him, wanting so much to just get him out of here, get him away from this awful place that belonged to him alone. And Dark. Tender, grinning, _giddy_ Dark, all smiles and soft touches, with that tremulous voice and cold skin, and the more Mark looked at him, the more he looked like the demon he was, skin more gray than olive, that lack of color seeping into the air around him, like he was slowly sucking all of the color out of the world. It looked like something he'd make for a video. Only this was very, very real, and he could see the realization sinking in for Jack as his eyes moved slowly back to the demon holding him.

"Jack, I'm sorry." It was just a whisper, shaken and torn, and he hadn't thought about what he was going to say, just opening his mouth to speak to him, because it was the only thing he could do right then, and god he wished he could reach him, reach Dark, do _anything_ other than sit here useless in this chair.

Jack didn't look back to him. He was fixed on Dark's face, eyes stony and solid, like he was staring down a wolf, and he didn't flinch when the demon shifted his hands, drawing one away to run it carefully through his hair, pressing gently at first, then tugging, slowly, just a little more pressure with each passing moment, gripping it in a fist for a moment, only to release it and card his fingers across his scalp, only to start again on a fresh pass. Petting him, but slow and vicious, and Mark felt the fury rising in him again.

"It's nice to finally meet you, _Jack_."

He said the name with such _reverence_ , like the taste was something exotic and pleasurable, and Mark bared his teeth without thought, because how _dare_ he say his name like that, like he had earned that kind of intimacy.

"Take your goddamn hands off him-" Mark started, the rage clear in his voice, whiting out everything for a moment as he imagined ripping those hands away from that pale face, imagined breaking the bones beneath his heal and taking Jack somewhere else, _anywhere else_ , somewhere they could just sit and talk and play games and be happy, anywhere but here.

He'd meant to say more, though he had no idea what he was going to say, just that he needed to speak, to fight in the only way he had. But the sharp blow to his cheek silenced him in shock, the sting hissing across his face a moment later, and his head snapped back, chocolate eyes darting to the wicked smile on Dark's face.

"Hush, Mark," he purred, soft and low, but you could hear the hatred in it now. Reserved only for him, it seemed. "Grown ups are talking, you'll get your turn in a minute."

And then he turned back to Jack, the hand returning briefly to his hair, to fix the mess he had made, the touch almost fond, before the hand at his cheek slipped under his chin, and the other moved to carefully smooth the tape across his skin.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked carefully, turning his head slightly as he looked down at the Irishman, fingers delicately trailing their way down his neck. Jack didn't move, only stared back at him, guarded, silent, calculating. He was pulled a little away, looking up at the stranger with Mark's face with a mingle of curiosity and suspicion, like he was trying to figure out the breed of dog that was growling at him in an alleyway, and Mark wanted to talk to him, to tell him to be careful, because it didn't matter what kind of cur it was, it was still rabid.

But he kept his mouth shut, breath bated, unsure, waiting as he tried to learn the rules of their new game. If he spoke again, who would Dark hit? Him or Jack?

It turned out not to matter. Another beat of silence, and Dark's hand whipped through the air, catching Jack hard on the side of his face, snapping his head to the side and earning a dull noise from the back of his throat. Mark was at the end of his reach in a heartbeat, a wordless cry of outrage on his lips, pain and anger swirling through his chest in a maelstrom at the small action.

And it was small. So small, compared to what he could do. Yet still it stabbed at him, like a hot knife, and he knew he'd do whatever Dark wanted, no matter what it was, to keep those hands off that pale skin.

He might have said something, pleaded or raged, but Dark's finger was held up towards Mark, silencing him quietly and waiting for Jack to recover, dark eyes drinking in the sight as those wild blue's spun and looked back up, the suspicion and hostility chasing the other emotions swiftly from his expression.

"I'd like you to answer me when I ask you a question," he crooned, and it was the only word for his voice then, low and tight and sweet, and so very wrong coming from his lips. The hand at his chin had slipped down to his throat, circling it slowly, delicately, and Mark blanched at the power he knew was controlled within those digits. He could snap his neck with a thought.

"Now," he said softly, and his knees bent gracefully as he brought himself down eye to eye with the green-haired man. "Do you know who I am?"

Jack nodded once, terse, and narrowed his eyes sharply, nostril flaring, and Mark could see the anger there, building slowly, but stark and open, not trying to hide the hostility as Dark smiled his sweet smile, his free hand coming up to touch his face again, like he couldn't get enough of the feel, leaning in closer, as if to study the lines of his face.

And Mark was suddenly afraid. Because Jack was strong. Not the kind of loud, boasty strength that he himself liked to exude, but a steadiness, a stubbornness, a sureness in himself and what he was doing. And he realized a split second before that this Jack, this angry little Irishman, who was looking the flickering demon in the eye, who was glaring at him hot and open, was not going to back down.

"Jack!"

But the warning was a half second too late as Jack swung his head forward, catching the demon in the nose with his forehead, a sickening _crack_ resonating through the room with a dread kind of echo.

Dark reeled back, standing to his full height in one fluid, easy motion, stepping away with a hand to his face, and Mark couldn't see his expression, but he knew the rage was there, knew he would reciprocate, knew Jack was helpless and he was _so stupid_ , little _idiot_ , he was going to get himself _killed_.

But Dark didn't move. He stood, back to Mark, looking down at the man with the burning eyes beneath him, silent for a few long, painful moments as Mark's heart seized in his chest, words trapped in his throat, fear lacing it's way through his limbs.

And then he _laughed_.

It was high, but hearty, rolling across that wicked tongue with ease, and he could see the way his shoulders rocked with the motion, his body giving in to the mirth as he laughed with a warmth that gave Mark chills.

"Oh, you are a _feisty_ one, aren't you?" he asked as his laughter died down, and he took a deep breath through his nose, exhaling with a pleased kind of sigh.

"I'm going to enjoy breaking you."

  


* * *

  


Dark hadn't expected him to hit him. Not this early. Maybe a little further down the line, when he'd done something other than merely _slap_ him. Maybe when he first gave him a hand free, or when he first hurt Mark (the slap didn't count - it had been soft by any means), or when he told him what he was going to do. He expected to have to stoke the fire in the little Irishman a bit more before he got the fight going in him.

But this was fine. Dark certainly didn't mind starting now. He relished the sting, the ache in his face, relished the way it felt empty and hollow as his body knit itself carefully back into place, erasing the damage as if it had never existed, and he smiled down at the green-haired man, as if he'd pleased him in some deep way.

"Dark, don't hurt him."

A feeble request. Mark's voice was soft, desperate, a whisper that might as well have gone unsaid for all the good it would do. Because Mark was powerless to stop him. Finally, _finally_ , it was Mark helpless, Mark with the useless body, Mark who had to watch, powerless, as his life was taken where he didn't want it to go, as he was forced to watch things he didn't want to see, to feel things he didn't want to feel.

It tasted like sin, and he licked his lips carefully, taking the time to turn his body a bit as he stepped closer to Jack, giving Mark a proper view once more. He wouldn't want him to miss a moment.

"Oh, but how will he learn, Mark?" he asked, and felt the shudder of excitement run through him as his hands delicately wrapped around that pale throat, watched as those angry eyes, with just the touch of fear, danced to Mark, as if he could help Jack, or Jack could help him. They were both useless, helpless, vulnerable beneath him, and he felt the groan leave his lips as he tightened his grip, the lightest of pressure, but more than enough with his strength to cut the Irishman's air off.

The effect was immediate. Jack went rigid beneath him, the muscles and tendons of his neck cording against his hands, pressing out as if they could somehow stop his impossible force, and Dark groaned again, the act turning into a throaty laugh as he watched Jack's fingers curl tightly around the arms of the chair, nails biting into the wood.

"No, _no_ , Dark let him go!"

Mark was pleading behind him, straining uselessly against his binds, that beautiful broken voice like a choir of angels to his ears, and he squeezed a little tighter, watched as the Irishman's jaw opened behind the tape, like a fish gasping for air, only he couldn't, his eyes shutting tight before flying open and glaring up at him, hot and wild and angry.

God, he was gorgeous, pink, then red tinging his cheeks, tears starting to prick at his eyes, fingers scrabbling uselessly against old wood. He could kill him, just like this. Could watch the light slowly fade from his eyes, watch the way he sagged into his touch, feel him twitch the last of his life away. And he could know that he knew he was going to die before it happened, knew it was going to be at Dark's hands, Mark's anguished cries a chorus accompaniment to his ecstasy.

But that would be . . . premature, to say the least. There was so much more to this feast. No point in jumping to the desserts already, when there were still delectable hors d'oeuvres laid out on this table before him.

"Now behave, Jack," he purred, the sound almost drowned out by Jack's racking muffled coughs, and Mark's desperate cries of "Jack", and he closed his eyes for a moment, just taking in the sweet harmony, the way Mark's voice curled around the words as he asked if he was okay, as he apologized, as he devolved nearly to tears. His body shuddered again as it devoured that desperate misery, and he felt a power surging through him that had him giddy, electricity shooting to his fingertips, begging to be used. He could tear apart this room with a thought just then.

Instead, he simply waited until Jack finally managed to catch his breath behind the tape, the sound wheezy and raw, and he wondered if he had caused some serious damage. Not that it mattered. It hadn't killed him.

When the room was silent besides that wheezy breath, Dark spoke again, stepping away from the pair for the first time with the words.

"Now we're going to play a game," he told them, his voice like a child's, excited and commanding as he paced slowly towards the little stone structure in the corner, his smile splitting up his face unbidden as he projected to be heard. "And everyone's going to behave, and play by the rules, and maybe _somebody_ will get to sleep tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC TRIGGER WARNINGS: Choking, general violence
> 
> Don't read below if you don't want this spoiled, but I did want to clear this up for those who will be way too stressed, like me, while reading this to actually be able to . . . enjoy? . . . the story.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **SPOILER BELOW**
> 
>  
> 
> You will notice in the tags that while there are two major archive warnings, there is one that is conspicuously missing. This is on purpose. I will always add major archive warnings, even if they spoil the story, so you can rest assured that none of the warnings that are missing will come into play.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of what was already on my computer, just had a little bit of time to edit it up. No guarantee on how long it'll take to get other chapters up.
> 
> Also, fair **warning** , this is where things start to get bad.
> 
> \-----
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: This fic has explicit and graphic depictions of a lot of fucked up things. Please read the tags. Chapter specific warnings in the end notes.

What the fuck was going on?

The last thing Jack could remember, he was at home, curled up in his bed, flicking through his phone to browse Twitter and check his emails one last time before calling it a night. Nothing out of the ordinary. He'd done his usual videos that day, uploaded on schedule, got his new raw footage off to Robin with plenty of time to spare. He'd talked to Mark a few days back, and nothing out of the ordinary there either. The American had been excited about the convention next month, and they'd talked for a while about their plans, just the usual friendly banter. Mark had seemed happy.

And now, here he was, leaned over in some kind of old torture chair, leather straps keeping him in his place as he struggled carefully around the tape over his mouth, over the feeling of the bundle of fabric gagging him, the tears stream down his face. He had to be so careful when he breathed, his body desperate for air, but he could only draw it in through his nose, where the tears had started to drain, and through the smallest of gaps in the tape over his mouth. If he breathed too fast, he would choke again, and that thought had him counting each inhale, each exhale, so carefully.

Mark was still murmuring to him, his voice strangely soothing, even here, and he took his time getting his air back, letting his eyes squint open to look over the man opposite him. Bruised and ragged, his eyes full of warmth and hurt, and Jack wanted to smile at him, to tell him he was fine, they were fine, they were going to be okay, because he looked so . . . broken.

It was so . . . wrong. Wrong to see on that face. Mark was all goofiness, and laughter, and even when he cried it was a weird kind of happy. He cried because he was a stupid emotional doof, not because he was sad. But now he looked torn, distraught, desperate, and it all looked so alien.

How was he here? Had that . . . thing . . . brought him? Or, and this was the more terrifying thought, had it brought Jack to Mark? Was he still in England? Or was this an American basement he was trapped in now, with this mad creature and this alien Mark, and _what the fuck was going on?_

He recognized it, of course. It was hard to miss, with the grey skin and the dark eyes and the distinct lack of color and warmth. All he was missing was that weird early 2000's 3D effect, and he would be a spot on Darkiplier. But . . . why? How? Who was this? He looked remarkably like Mark - obviously, if he looked like Dark - and Mark was . . . afraid of him? Not that there was nothing to fear in even a short man of that build, especially when they were both bound. But the way Mark looked at him, with fear and hatred and loathing. Not the goofy version he did for videos, but how he might really look when faced with that kind of demon.

And that iron grip. Jack shuddered at the new memory, the feeling of those cold hands clamped down over his windpipe, cutting off the air effortlessly, dead eyes looking down at him with ghoulish pleasure, and the way the air had seemed to shimmer around him.

He couldn't . . . actually, be Dark, could he? Jack had told him he knew who he was, because that was obviously what he was going for, makeup and all. But to believe he was actually that demon . . .

It . . . made sense. It shouldn't. It really shouldn't. But it all lined up so well. The look, the power, the terrible feeling of _wrongness_ around him. What if this really was Mark's demon? What if the videos were true, if he truly had the power exhibited there, the personality, that psychotic cant to his thoughts, obsessive and powerful, and _oh fuck, just let it be a crazy fan_.

"Now we're going to play a game . . ." Jack snapped to attention, his red eyes following the man's form as he walked away, behind Mark, towards something he couldn't see very well in the corner. ". . . And everyone's going to behave, and play by the rules, and maybe _somebody_ will get to sleep tonight."

_Fuck you._

He would not have said it out loud even if he could - he wasn't that stupid - but it felt good to say it in his head, to vent the anger and indignation of their treatment, the frustration of the gag rendering him just that much more helpless. Mark was stiff, only able to listen to the sounds as the man messed with something that sounded heavy and metal, his frame blocking the thing from view, and chocolate eyes had turned back to him, silent now, but so open, and Jack felt his eyebrows pull together in sympathy, in concern, in reassurance. He was okay. They were going to be okay. He didn't know how yet. But they were gonna get out of this.

Jesus, just last night he'd been snuggled up under his covers with no other concern besides needing to make a grocery trip at some point. How had things changed like this so fast? Why was he taking it so well? Shouldn't he be panicking? He was literally trapped in a basement with a madman, possibly a demon, tied to a chair, choking, about to take part in some kind of game. Every horror movie ever told him he should be crying or hyperventilating or _something_.

But he just . . . wasn't.

Maybe he was in shock?

"Now," Dark's voice was smooth, and he really dragged the word out, almost a drawl, as he turned back to face them, holding something long and black and orange in one hand. Jack squinted at it, confused, unfamiliar, before he caught sight of the flickering light through the little hatch he'd left open, and the pieces fell into place, and oh, _there_ was the terror.

  


* * *

  


Ah, there it was. There was the fear he'd been waiting for, that panicky, sticky kind of fear that swallowed you up and made it hard to breathe, tightened your chest so hard you fought for every shallow breath, and he grinned as he watched the green-haired man's chest rise faster.

He had held it together remarkably well, considering everything. No panic, no trying to talk, no useless struggling against his restraints. He was saving his energy, trying to figure this out before he made a move, and Dark wanted to run his fingers through his burnt hair once more, praise him for his solid attempt. But it was time to take the first bite, and he let his smile split his face as he strolled back to the pair, hand curved carefully around the white hot brand.

Jack's nails were biting into the wood again, his eyes wide and wild as he watched him, nostrils flaring, breath stuttering. The promise of pain - real pain, not the kitten swipes he'd inflicted so far - had a way of doing that to people. Mark's head was snapped to the side, trying to see, tipped off by his friend's panic, but it wasn't until Dark stopped a few paces away, holding the instrument up in the dim light, examining it with lover's eyes, that he seemed to understand what he was looking at.

"Dark," he croaked, the panic and fear obvious in his voice, and he was shaking now, swallowing hard as he looked at the glowing metal, curved in elegant shapes to form a precise 'D'.

"Don't. Please don't."

Dark laughed at that, high and cruel once more. Mark was watching him with those lovely distraught earthy orbs, and he took the moment to draw that delectable taste over his tongue, savoring the particular flavor of his misery, loving the way it rushed through him like a drug. And he wanted _more_.

"Now, I told you," he started, taking slow paces forward, speaking to Mark even as he turned towards Jack, a wicked grin on his face as he felt the power rumble through him. "That I wanted to carve my name in his back."

"Dark, please-"

"But this would be a nicer start, wouldn't it?" He was standing a pace away from the Irishman now, looking down at him as he pressed against the chair, pressing as far away from the demon as he could, eyes following the slow motion of the brand as Dark made little circles in the air. "Not the whole name yet. Just an . . . initial. Just a _taste_."

In one swift motion, Dark darted forward, his hand coming out to grip the Irishman's shirt, drinking in the muffle yell, the terror, before he pulled, his fingers shredding through the shirt like tissue paper, fluttering prettily as he stepped back to look him over again.

He was heaving in air around his gag, wild eyes fixed on Dark, ever muscle tense with fear, his shirt in tatters around his bare chest, and he watched the erratic rise and fall for the briefest moment, before raising the brand and pointing it at his captive.

"No, no, _no_ , Dark, _no_ ," Mark was screaming behind him, the sound of the little chains on the arms rattling and snapping, and he was sure he would have flipped himself if the chair wasn't screwed to the floor. " _Please_ , Dark, don't, no, _no, no!_ "

That luscious taste exploded across his tongue, and he had to fight not to turn back to Mark, to drink it in directly, watch his eyes as the panic and despair took him. Instead, he aimed the burning end of the brand towards Jack's chest, the color having faded from that neon orange to an angry red, and he smiled as he watched him cave away from it, a whimper in his throat, pretty blue eyes fixed on the weapon as if it was his death coming to him, instead of just a taste of pain.

"Dark, _please_ ," Mark screamed again, and Dark let himself close his eyes and enjoy the sound, just for a moment. "Please, I'll do anything, I swear, I'll do anything for you Dark, I'll be whatever you want, you can have me, please don't hurt him, please, not him, please not him, please . . ."

He was sobbing. How unsightly. And . . . piquant.

"Ohhhhhhh, I guess I did say this was a game," Dark purred finally, pulling the brand slowly from its place a couple of inches from Jack's heaving chest. He'd probably left a minor burn already. "And I suppose there are ways to win a game."

He smiled softly, and turned back to Mark, lowering the glowing rod as he stooped to look him in the eye, examine the red lines there, the lovely shimmer of tears across the brown pools.

"Would you like to know how to win, Mark?"

There was fear there. He didn't trust him. But he was _desperate_ , and he might be offering him a way out, so of course he choked out the shaky "Yes."

"One of you is going to be branded," he told him simply, watching the way Mark recoiled from the knowledge, but not taking the time to enjoy it. "Now, I want it to be Jack here. I want to watch his little frame shake as he screams into that gag, and I want to see my initial burned angry and red into that porcelain chest of his."

"Please-"

"But _I suppose_ I could settle for you. If you think you can do it."

"Y- . . . yes."

The answer was so beautifully shaken, full of fear, fear of pain and fear of Dark and fear for his little obsession, but so sure. Of course he was ready to take the punishment. How could he say no after the option was given to him? Dark grinned at him, bringing the brand slowly back into his view, holding it delicately between their faces.

"You have to do it, Mark." And Mark's face colored at that. "I'm not going to do it for you. If you want to take my fun, you'll need to put the work in. You will put that brand to your skin, and you will make sure my initial is burned into you before you stop. Do you think you can do that, pet?"

"Yes." It was a whisper. But it was enough.

"Okay," he said, his tone just as soft, one hand coming up to brush a bit of his hair from his face, tender and sweet. Then he stood, making quick, long strides back to the little kiln, replacing the iron in the fire to regain the heat it had lost before returning to Mark, careful not to step between the desperate look he was sharing with Jack.

"Now I'm going to release one of your hands, Mark," he commanded easily. "And you will release your other. You will then remove your shirt and fetch the brand before returning to your seat and administering it to yourself somewhere on your torso. I'll even let you pick."

He added the last part with a smile as he laid delicate fingers across one of his restraints.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes." His eyes never broke from Jack's.

Dark move with deft fingers, releasing one wrist with ease before retreating, easy and confident, to stand behind the Irishman, his hands coming to rest on his shoulders, one of the tatters of his shirt slipping between his fingers. He tensed under him, but didn't pull away, just watched Mark as he struggled with the other bind.

"Now behave, Mark," Dark warned softly as he finally freed himself, sinking slowly down to put his face next to Jack's, looking up at him with shimmering eyes. "Let's not kid ourselves about your ability to overpower me. If you try anything, I will return you to your chair and you can watch as I fuck him raw."

At that, Jack did flinch, and he realized a moment too late that it was the first time he had mentioned it to him whilst he was conscious. He would have liked to see his face. But ah well. It was unimportant in the long run. Instead, he simply squeezed a little tighter, and turned to take a quick breath of his scent before turning to watch Mark follow his commands.

He hesitated for the briefest of moments, eyes tracing the Irishman's face, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, before reaching down to carefully pull his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor as he turned to take short, mechanical steps towards the kiln.

"What do you think?" Dark murmured into his captive's ear as they watched Mark tenderly retrieving the brand, careful to keep his hands to the cool handle. "Think he's going to scream when it bites into his oh so perfect skin? Or maybe he'll be able to stay quiet, _just for you_."

He was ready for it this time, his hand twisting into that vibrant hair to catch it as he swung his head at him, the only weapon he had left to attack with. He chuckled, low in his throat, and examined the wild look in those baby blues, wondering how Mark had ever earned such a pretty little thing.

"Behave, baby boy," he crooned. "We'll get to know soon enough."

Mark was back, the brand held awkwardly at his side, as he glanced at the pair. Dark's hand was still twisted in the Irishman's hair, and he grinned as he forced his face up, baring his throat with ease, earning only the smallest of noises from his victim.

Just another reminder of how helpless they were.

"Go on, Mark," he groaned.

He watched with hungry eyes as Mark sank into the chair, legs shaky, pulling the brand out before him pointed up, as he took deep, ragged breaths. He looked down just a moment, eyes searching across his body, before seeming to settle and turning the brand carefully towards his chest, held out awkwardly in front of him in both hands, arms shaking, jagged breaths drawn around clenched teeth.

Suddenly, Jack was writhing in his grip, fighting him with a strength he hadn't expected out of his little frame. The hand in his hair slipped a fraction, and he tightened his fingers harshly, earning a little cry from his captive. Only, it wasn't for him. He was calling for Mark, fighting him to get to him, his name muffled and distorted on his lips, but Dark knew what he was saying.

How sweet.

Mark looked up at the struggle, another tear slipping from its tenuous grasp on his lash and disappearing into the darkness around him. His eyes were wide, his lips pressed hard together, his breathing raw and labored, and at Jack's desperation he faltered, the brand pulled away, held limp in one hand over the arm as the other went to his hair, running through it fast and rough.

"Shit," he whispered, loud enough for them to hear over Jack's muffled voice, and closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, before looking back to Jack with a heartbroken expression. "Shit, I'm sorry."

And then, with quick movements, like he was racing his own self-preservation, he turned the brand back to his chest, wrapping both hands around the handle, and pressed the burning red 'D' into the flesh of his right breast.

He howled. Ah, Dark had hoped he would, wanted to hear that broken sound as the pain ripped through him. It was loud, sharp, dying back to a choked sob as his body jerked, the brand slipping from his fingers to fall with a clatter to the ground, and he curled forward into himself, his body shaking with wrecked whimpers, and Dark sighed softly as he released his hold on the mute man.

There. The first one. His first mark on that body, the one that was no longer his, the one that held only the soul of his tormentor. And god, it tasted like heaven, sweet and heavy on his tongue as he prowled closer to the keening man.

Mark didn't see him pick up the brand, didn't see him reaching for his hair, didn't see anything outside of the little circle of pain and misery he'd created around himself. His hands came up to bite into Dark's arms in surprise as he wrapped his fingers harshly through his dark fringe, yanking him back in the chair, forcing him to arch his back so he could see the mark.

It wasn't complete. He had figured it wouldn't be, not with the way he had dropped the iron so quickly. It was lighter than it should be, bright pink blisters formed over the outline of the letter across his chest, and Dark clicked his tongue in disapproval, not bothering to warn him as he brought the brand back up and pressed it firmly over the failed mark.

Mark _screamed_ then, his fingers biting sharply into his forearms, yanking at them with all his strength. But it was still meager compared to Dark's iron will, his body immovable as Mark struggled uselessly against him.

He wanted to hold it a moment longer, just a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, reluctant to let the silence sink into the air again, a pitiful replacement for that beautiful voice. But he didn't want to damage him beyond repair, not just yet. So he let him sink back, let him curl in the chair, his sobs breathless and weak, as he stepped back to examine his work.

"If you're going to do something, Mark," he said, speaking slowly, his voice even and guarded as he hefted the brand in his hand, weighing it carefully as Mark slowly turned his face to look at him, still twisted in pain. "I expect you to do it right."

For a moment they just stared at each other, eyes locked, one pair cold, one pained, before Mark's eyes widen in realization, the horror sinking into him as he understood Dark's words.

"Wait, no-!" He lunged for him, arm outstretched, pain forgotten for a moment as he tried to stop the sweeping swing Dark had lashed out with. But it was useless, too late and too weak, as Dark brought the iron around sharply behind him to crash into Jack's temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC TRIGGER WARNINGS: Violence, branding, forced self-harm, threats/mention of rape


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, welcome back to 4k words of we're all going to hell, and not in the good way.
> 
> \-----
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: This fic has explicit and graphic depictions of a lot of fucked up things. Please read the tags. Chapter specific warnings in the end notes.

Jack woke slowly, the world coming back to him in bits and pieces. Smell first, something acrid and sharp under the smokey flavor of the room. The smell of heat, even though he could feel a chill on his bare chest. Then came sound, taste, the feel of the rough wood under his fingers, and then a terrible pounding in his head that drew a long groan from his throat.

"Jack."

That was Mark's voice . . . right? Why was he hearing it right now? Was it talking to him, or was it on a video? It sounded wrong.

Jack licked his lips, slowly, wincing at their chapped state, wondering where his ChapStick was, wondering why his back was aching, wondering why his head felt like he'd gone on the worst bender of his life. He shifted, trying to lift his screaming head, his eyes fighting to crack open, but balking at the sharp light that attacked his pupils.

"Easy, Jack. Go slow."

Why did Mark sound so broken? His voice was all fucked up, like he'd been screaming or something, and-

Jack blanched, his stomach rolling as the image of Mark sitting shirtless in that chair flashed through his mind, and he coughed, fighting not to let the nausea overthrow him. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, they were in some kind of stupid torture dungeon or something, and Darkiplier was real, and he was going to fuck him, and oh god.

"Mark . . ." His own voice sounded awful, scratchy and rough, and he coughed again, trying to clear his throat and wincing at the lines of pain that sent through his splitting head. He couldn't remember why it hurt like this. He couldn't really remember anything but flashes, bits of memories swirling around in his mind like murky waters, and he tried to focus, to get over the vague fluttery panic in his chest and pay attention to what was going on around him.

"I'm here," Mark's voice told him, and Jack worked slowly to open his eyes, lifting his head a little higher as he squinted against the light in the room, probably much dimmer than the knives stabbing his eyes would have him believe. He saw the floor first, confusing and disorienting as he'd thought he'd lifted his head higher, and he winced again as he fought gravity to bring his heavy skull further up. He felt like his brain was swimming in a vat of stale alcohol.

"Are you okay?" Mark asked, and Jack struggled to focus on him, his eyes blurry and tender as he took in the sight of his friend, lashed to a wooden chair, his dark hair an utter mess, and his eyes red and dim. He looked like he was nursing his own hangover, though Jack cringed as he realized he knew damn well why he looked like that, and it had nothing to do with alcohol. "Hey, easy, okay? Don't . . . don't push it."

"I'm fine," Jack told him on autopilot, his brain struggling to fit together the mess of information that seemed to just be jumbled in a big pile in the back of his head. He felt sluggish, confused and hurt as he tugged at the strands in the pile, and tried to make some kind of sense of them.

He was tied to a chair. So was Mark. They were both in the same place, somehow, some kind of basement, or at least that's what he guessed with the painted concrete walls and lack of windows. A man had taken them. He looked like Mark. He was _probably_ Dark, and the thought seemed crazy in his head, but he was just the right kind of disoriented to accept it. So they were at possibly a demon's mercy. He didn't have the gag on anymore, and . . . were they the only ones in the room?"

"Where's . . ." Jack started, turning his head to try to see around him, before a wave of nausea hit him hard, and he coughed, fighting the feeling. He could feel how raw his lips were, from the tape and dehydration and his desperate screaming . . .

"He's gone." Mark's voice was quiet, and Jack turned back up to look at him, at the pain and fear in his eyes, and he swallowed thickly, urging his brain to catch up, fighting the sluggishness, knowing he needed to have every bit of his wits around him right now if they were going to get out of this. "He'll be back later."

Jack opened his mouth, a slow line of questions forming in his throat as he worked through his memories, trying to get everything in order, needing Mark to fill in the blanks that were left in this fucked up narrative. But before he could say anything, his eyes danced down, and he choked, a twisted feeling of anger and pain churning through him at the burn on Mark's chest.

It wasn't red, like he might have expected. More pink around the edges, white splotches making a mottled mess. But the center was strangely clean - sharp lines of dull brown, cream, white, and just a touch of red near the top. It looked fake, like someone had tried to paint it on and the paint had started to peel, and Jack could feel his gut roiling harshly, but he couldn't look away.

"Oh god," Jack hissed, the words slipping from his lips before he'd even considered them, and he could hear the way his voice broke as he continued. "Mark, god, your chest."

The American flinched, and he could see the way he swallowed hard, but didn't look down.

"It's fine. Doesn't even hurt, really." He was obviously going for a light tone, but Jack could hear the strain there, and he let his eyes dart back to Mark's, open and concerned as his friend looked him over. "How are you?"

"Yer asking me? You got- . . . yeh got _branded_ ," - the word physically hurt to say - "and yer asking if _I'm_ okay?"

"Yeah, you're head, is it okay? Does it hurt? Are you nauseous?"

"Mark, what-"

"He hit you. Do you remember?"

Jack paused, letting his brain try to catch up as he watched Mark's knuckles turn white against the worn wood of his chair. He was leaning towards him, the strain in his arms clearly visible without his shirt, and Jack wondered when he'd been put back in the restraints. Actually, he couldn't really remember _anything_ after Mark had . . . Mark had hurt himself, and Jack had felt like he was in a nightmare, and . . . something else happened . . . Dark had let go of him, and . . .

"I don't remember," Jack admitted, and noticed how raw his throat felt. Probably from the fucker choking him. Or maybe his own screaming.

"How do you feel? Are you dizzy?"

Jack stopped again, trying to take stock as his brain trudged along at its lethargic pace. He felt like he was drunk. Or on allergy meds, or something. He couldn't hold a thought just right. He moved his head from side to side, twisting his neck and noting the myriad of aches and pains that spread out from his shoulders up to his skull.

"'m not dizzy. A little sick."

Mark seemed to relax a little into his chair at that, and Jack took the moment to look him over. Besides the brand, he didn't seem to be in terrible shape. A few bruises on one of his shoulders, and his cheek was sporting a very faint bruise that could honestly just be a bit of dirt, he couldn't tell. But nothing serious. Besides that burn. He was probably still at his full strength. And yet, somehow, Dark had managed to subdue him and bring him here.

"Mark . . ." and his voice sounded shakier than he was hoping for. He wasn't going to freak out. He was going to be calm, because there was no reason to have a panic attack here, it wasn't going to fix anything, and all he needed to be concerned about just then was _getting out_. "What's going on. Who is that? Why is he . . . doing this?"

The American looked away sharply, his eyes squinting shut in a look of pain, or shame, and he could see the way his chest stuttered as he took a shaky breath. He looked . . . god, he looked wrong like this. Mark was all laughter, and goofiness, and childish antics. And he'd seen him cry before, yeah, but not like . . . not like this. He looked _broken_ , crushed and destroyed, like someone had torn his soul right from his chest, and it was just so _wrong_ to look at. Jack wanted to go to him, to comfort him in some way, to tell him it was going to be all right and make him believe it, because he couldn't stand to see him this way.

And also because he needed him right then. He needed Mark to be with him, to be the man Jack knew he was, to be strong enough to get them both through this together. He couldn't do this alone. He couldn't get through this alone. He'd already had a taste of what Dark was capable of, and he knew he didn't want to stay here and discover any more.

"Mark, it's okay," he murmured to him hoarsely, wishing desperately that he could reach across the feet separating them and comfort him properly. "We're gonna get through this. Whoever that is, or whyever he's doing it, it's not going teh change anything. I just want teh know. I'm really in the dark right now." He chuckled a little at the last bit.

Mark laughed too, but the sound was humorless. "You're comforting me," he said in a hollow voice, and Jack had the sudden urge to slap him, as if that might pull him from whatever dead place he was living in to make his voice sound like _that_. "I did all of this, and you're comforting me."

"I don' believe that," Jack said immediately, his voice sharper than he meant it to be, and he had to stop to cough before he could continue. "Did yeh create that thing? On purpose, huh? And commanded it teh come torture us? 'cause I'm thinkin' not."

"I might as well have."

"Migh' as well of ain't the same as doin'."

"Jack . . ." and he could see the way the man was deflating in front of him, caving in around himself, all guilt and self-pity, and Jack's heart ached as he watched, even as his tongue sharpened. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

"Shut up, and tell me wha' he is, Fischbach." When Mark looked like he was going to devolve into tears, Jack made his voice harder, commanding in a way he wasn't used to, and caught the man in a hard look. "Mark, tell me what the hell is going on."

"He's a . . . he's a demon," Mark admitted after another painful few moments of silence. "I don't know when he was put in me, he took it out of my head, I can't remember. But he's been there for years. He's . . . he was . . . trapped inside me. And I could control him, or I thought I could, but then he went quiet, and I never realized he'd escaped."

Jack did his best not to let the shock get to him. It shouldn't be surprising. It was basically what his brain had come up with already. But the reality of it was . . . startling, to say the least.

"Okay, so how's that your fault?" They probably didn't have time for this. But there was an anger building deep in Jack's gut, a hatred of this creature, that had hurt him, and hurt Mark, and had done so much to turn his friend into this . . . thing he saw before him, because this was _not_ Mark Fischbach, not the one he knew. He wanted the real one back. And the idea of Mark thinking even for a _second_ that this was his fault had him seething.

"I let him out."

"How were yeh supposed to keep him in? Did yeh have a fookin' instruction manual or something?"

"No. But I . . . I shouldn't have let my guard down."

"He's a _demon_ , Mark. And unless yeh secretly went through some like ninja nun training or something, I don't think anyone's equipped to deal with a demon."

Mark was silent for a moment, his eyes searching Jack's face, and the intensity of it made his gut clench, unable to look away.

"He's going to hurt you." The words were whispered, slipped from raw lips, and Jack suppressed the shudder that followed them.

"He's gonna try."

"He's too strong Jack. I can't stop him."

"Yeh don't need teh stop him on yer own. We'll figure something out together."

"We _can't_ , Jack. We can't fight him-"

"Yes, we can. Yes, we fuckin' can, and I swear teh god, if you tell me we can't again, I will smack yeh like yer momma shoulda. I'm not here to jus' roll over, Mark. I'm not gonna just sit here and watch 'im hurt yeh. And lord help me jaysus, if you just do what he says again, like his little bitch, I'll throttle yeh."

Mark flinched at the words, but he brought his eyes back to Jack's, and the Irishman felt a warmth in his gut at the hurt, the concern, the . . . affection in his eyes as he stared him down.

"I can't watch him hurt you."

"Mark-"

"I can't, Seán. Don't ask me to."

The fight was slowly slipping from him, the strength running out of his body bit by bit, and he felt his face start to pull up in a look of pain. The way Mark was looking at him, _pleading_ with him, and the memory of having to watch still fresh in his mind . . . he couldn't actually ask that of him.

"I . . . fine, jus' . . . jus' . . . we have to try _something_ , Mark. We can't jus' . . . give up." He looked around the room, trying to take everything in as his head throbbed and his eyes watered. "I don't want teh watch you get hurt either. It . . . it sucks."

"I know."

"Do yeh . . ." And Jack had to pause to lick his lips, his throat trying to close around the question. "Do yeh think he's gonna kill us?"

"Only if you misbehave, baby boy."

The voice shot ice through Jack's veins, and he saw the way Mark stiffened harshly in his binds, his breath hitching up to match the Irishman's own as the demon slowly stepped forward from the shadows. He was smiling, soft and sweet, eyes shifting between the two of them as he prowled across the room. Jack's eyes darted down to the water bottle in his hands, strangely normal to be held by those fingers when the last he could remember the creature was holding a white-hot brand just above his chest.

He moved slowly, like he was savoring each step, and Jack had time to push against the fear rising in his throat, shove it down deep in his gut and lock it away. Or tried to. He wasn't about to give this thing the satisfaction of seeing him afraid again. At least, he was going to avoid it as long as he could.

The creature came to stand just between them, close enough to see the creases in his fingers as he brought the bottle up to his lips, taking a tiny sip. He looked even worse than the last time Jack had seen him, and any doubt he had that he wasn't exactly as Mark had described was seeping from his mind. The flickering was more defined than he remembered, his gray skin standing out, a small haze of grayscale reaching out around him, and when he turned to look down at Jack, his eyes were _black_.

"Thirsty, Jack?" he asked, his voice a low purr, and his eyes spoke of nothing but cruelty as he slowly proffered the bottle to the restrained man. Jack could feel the anger rearing up in his gut, and he knew his face was twisting into a snarl as the demon leaned down closer to him. "Come now, all you have to do is ask nicely."

"Teh fook makes yeh think I'm gonna do that?" he spat, and he heard the noise Mark made across from him. Dark narrowed his eyes, but the little smile on his face never faltered, and he only crooked his head to the side and shifted into a proper crouch.

"Now Jack," and his voice was a deep roll of pleasure, soft, murmured just for him. "Let's be . . . reasonable. If you're going to survive. If you're going to . . . _escape_ ," and his lips pulled up in a twisted grin at that. "You need to be at your full strength. I think indulging my games is a small price to pay for that, don't you?"

Jack narrowed his eyes, biting back the sharp retort that threatened on his tongue as he considered it.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you don't get water. It's as simple as that."

He shouldn't. Part of him really wanted to just spit in his face and deny him any kind of satisfaction. He was a sick fuck, and Jack wasn't here to be his toy. He'd _just_ railed at Mark for this very thing. But . . . the creature was right. If he wanted to get out, he couldn't risk being dehydrated, or down on his energy. He needed any sustenance the demon was willing to give him. Both of them did. And he'd get it from them eventually, wouldn't he? If he was willing to hold out, either Jack would cave and ask for it, or he'd die. Either way, Dark won. And it wasn't like he was threatening pain. This was just . . . daily needs. Perhaps it was better to set a good tone for this part.

"Fine," he spat, and his voice didn't give an inch as he made his request. "Can I have some water?"

"I said be polite," Dark reminded him in a tone that sounded much too pleased. "It's polite to say please, and use a person's name."

 _You're not a person._ But Jack didn't say that. Instead, he only gritted his teeth, taking a sharp breath before trying again in an even tone.

"May I _please_ have some water, _Dark_?"

"Yes, you may," the creature growled, and Jack resisted the urge to add a smart retort, choosing instead to wait as the demon brought the bottle carefully to his lips.

This was fucking embarrassing. Being fed like a child, his hands trapped uselessly at his sides, as he struggled to swallow carefully without spilling. A small amount escaped from the corner of his mouth, and he cringed, knowing he couldn't wipe it away, hating the feel of it sliding down his neck.

Dark didn't speak as he let him drink, just watched and waited, and finally started to remove the bottle when Jack needed air. He still had a mouthful of water when Dark spoke, the words dripping like honey from his lips.

"Now who's the little bitch?"

Jack didn't hesitate. The water left his mouth in a sharp spray, shot haphazardly from his lips in the vague direction of the creature's face, surprising him by catching a fair amount of his cheek. He was already sucking in a deep breath, lips parted to seeth a harsh curse at him, only he never got the chance.

Dark moved at a confusing speed, his motions too fast, too broken to follow, and Jack had no idea how he was suddenly released from his binds, the air feeling strange around his sweaty wrists. But he had no time to consider it before an iron grip was wrapping around his throat, pulling him bodily from the chair.

He'd always assumed those movies and tv shows where someone held someone else up by their throat were bullshit. People were heavy, a throat wasn't a great place to hold, and that would just be dead weight swaying in the breeze. But it didn't even feel like a struggle for the flickering creature as he yanked him into the air, the room spinning around him strangely before he felt a cold wall slam into his back.

How the fuck had he gotten here so fast? How the fuck was Dark so strong? How the _fuck_ was he supposed to breathe with that iron hand wrapped terrifyingly tight around his throat. It was like every bit of power in his body was gone, taken from him, even the simple act of breathing refused him as he gaped at the grinning face above him. And Dark was laughing, his face flickering oddly as the water dripped down his cheek, his black eyes looking hollow, soulless.

He couldn't reach the ground. His hands were wrapped harshly around the demon's wrists, fighting as much as he was holding himself up, and he could feel the tears streaming down his face, could feel the way he was gaping like a fish, helpless, at his mercy, not even enough space left between them to be able to swing his legs up.

He was stuck and he couldn't breathe, and there were spots starting to form in his vision, and even now there was an anger twisting its way through his gut, dwarfed by the fear, but still there.

"I love it when you fight me," the thing purred, suddenly pressed against him, lips at his ear, and Jack had only a moment to try to comprehend around the pressure of the fingers digging in under his jaw before he felt the pain explode across his shoulder.

Dark was biting him. His teeth dug into the meat of his shoulder, just where it met his neck, a big mouthful twisted between heavy teeth, and if Jack could breathe, he'd be screaming. One hand released its hold on his assailant's wrist to grab at his hair, his face, rake nails through his skin, anything to make him release him. But he didn't budge, just growled against his throat and bit harder, and it felt like every nerve in his body was alive, the lethargy gone in his brain as his body arched under the terrible feeling.

Jack couldn't tell how long it lasted. Darkness was starting to crowd in around his eyes when he felt him disengage from his shoulder, shuddering as he felt the flat of his tongue sweep across the raw flesh. The strength was gone from his legs, and he collapsed into the demon's arms, light-headed, disoriented, gasping as the oxygen worked its way back into his brain.

He could hear Mark around the corners of his consciousness, broken, hoarse, but angry, and he felt a strange thrill at that. It was more than he'd heard from the American since Dark had brought out the brand, and even in his stupor he felt happy at the sound.

He wasn't aware he was back in the chair until he felt the cuffs tightening around his wrists once more. Dark's face was close, too close, but Jack didn't have the energy to fight him, not just then. He was slumped in the chair, and he could feel the wetness of the water and his tears sticking on his throat, and he wanted to hit him, good and hard, but even if he was loose, he'd have no strength to.

If they were going to fight this thing, they'd have to be smart. It was strong, so very strong, and even together they weren't enough to best it in physicality along. They had to be smart. They had to come up with a plan. It was obvious Dark wanted to toy with them, so he probably wouldn't kill them immediately, and if he'd left them alone once, he'd probably leave them alone again. They could do this. They really _could_. They _would not_ die in this stupid fucking basement to this smug cunt.

Dark said something, murmured and low, but Jack didn't quite catch it, and couldn't really care. More theatrics, he was sure. More pretty words that he'd probably thought too much about. Overwritten, and Jack just didn't care about his scary one-liners. He could save them for his mirror.

But then he was stepping away from him, and Jack cared a little more, because he was stepping towards Mark now. Mark, who was glaring up at him, hot and angry, and Jack felt his stomach swoop in a twisted kind of happiness. Alright. So he could be angry. Jack just needed to be involved.

He could work with that.

But he knew right then wasn't the time for it. As much as he _despised_ that creature. As much as he wanted to spite him, to sneer and throw his stupid words back in his face, he needed to be smart. They need to be smart. So as Dark took another step closer, towering over Mark's naked frame, Jack chewed down his pride, and spoke through clenched teeth.

"Just take the drink, Mark," he spit around his raw throat. He could see the way Mark's brows pulled up, see the way he frowned, see the way he didn't want to. But he swallowed, and opened his mouth to accept the liquid without a fuss.

No need for Mark to beg, it seemed.

Jack watched quietly, his tongue pressed firmly between his teeth, his head throbbing and his shoulder burning, and set to work on a plan, steeling himself for what was to come. It was probably going to hurt. There was probably going to be a lot more pride to swallow. But he was going to do his best, because he was determined to prove Mark wrong.

They could get out. And they would.

And if they needed to kill Dark to make that happen, Jack was ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC TRIGGER WARNINGS: Choking, biting
> 
> I actually really enjoyed writing this one - it's a lot of fun going back and forth between these three quite distinct personalities. And also really satisfying to write feisty Jack :}
> 
> Also, is there anyone reading regularly who would prefer chapter specific warnings? I haven't so far, since it feels like there should just be a blanket warning over this whole thing, like don't try to read any of it if you have any triggers, 'cause there's a good chance it's in here. But I can if people want?


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember how I said I was gonna post a new chapter _nine months ago?_ This took long enough that you could have grown a human baby in that time, jaysus. Anyways, I'm hoping 9k of . . . whatever this is can help make it up to some of you. I'm not sure if this is up to par with my other chapters, because it's still really hard to write, but hopefully it's still enjoyable.
> 
> \-----
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: This fic has explicit and graphic depictions of a lot of fucked up things. Please read the tags. Chapter specific warnings in the end notes.
> 
> Seriously, we're getting into iffy areas. Do check the warnings if you're concerned.

Mark drank, the cool water washing over his parched throat in a way that should have been pleasant, but only served to make him feel sick. Dark was still smiling down at him pleasantly, his dead eyes blacker than anything had a right to be, looking for all the world like he was simply patiently helping an invalid as he tilted the bottle gently against his lips.

He understood Jack's urge to spit it back at him now.

He could still hear Jack gasping across from him, his head lolling slightly to the side as he seemed to try to pull himself together, breaths slowing as Dark finally pulled the bottle away. Mark was just starting to turn his head, eager to check on him, to get a better look at the wreck that Dark had dragged off of the wall after his terrifying display, but he stopped, jerking sharply as he felt fingers card through his messy hair.

"Good boy."

He yanked away from the touch sharply, stomach flipping sickeningly at the endearment, and turned hot eyes up to glare at the demon. Dark only smiled at him, something insidiously soft in his expression, before he patted his cheek and stepped away.

Mark's eyes followed him only long enough to see he wasn't headed towards Jack before they were darting sharply to the Irishman, concern pouring off of him in waves as he looked him over.

"Are you okay?" he asked, voice startling raw from how loudly he'd shouted when Dark ripped the man from his chair. He looked like shit, face red from coughing, hair a mess over his eyes and his bare shoulder angry and red, a thin line of blood marking the bite. His torn shirt had slipped from his form in the scuffle, and Mark was given a stark look at the body he'd thought about seeing over and over again, only now he just wished desperately that it was covered in one of his old sweatshirts, baggy and comfortable. Warm. Safe. Anything but this.

"I'm fine," Jack managed between ragged breaths, his eyes closing for a moment as he shook his head, green hair falling messy around his face. "I'm fine, Mark."

That little way he said his name. That lilt, the way the r seemed to take up the entire name. It usually sparked that little giddy feeling in his gut, something bordering on innocent, though it was still tainted by his stupid feelings, but sweet and soft and happy. And now it just twisted his stomach all over again, a wave of sickening guilt clutching him hard enough to take his breath.

"Oh, Mark," another voice purred, one that said his name with a different kind of lilt, a soft croon rich with something that could almost be mistaken for admiration, but what Mark knew was obsession. Anger. Hatred. A voice that was promising nothing but pain and misery for the foreseeable future. A voice he wished more than anything was trapped inside his head once more, torment for him, and him alone.

Dark stepped back into view, the water bottle gone from his hands to be replaced with something small and rectangular. His eyes were pitying from his height above them, looking down at Mark with the barest hint of a smile that set the hairs on the back of his neck on end.

"I've barely touched him," the demon hissed softly, the smile twitching higher as he turned to glance at Jack again. And then he was reaching out, and Mark was tensing sharply in his chair, useless and helpless to do anything but watch as Dark ran his fingers under Jack's chin, forcing his face up as tired blue eyes glared up hotly at him. "Don't get so excited now. It gets. . . _much_ better."

"Stop," Mark rasped, arms straining against his restraints, even though he knew very well it was useless by this point. The bones ached, skin bruised from how many times he'd snapped to the end of the little chains binding him to the chair's arms. But he couldn't stop himself, even as the background pain lanced up his arms. "Stop, Dark. Please. You don't need him for this. Just . . . just let him go, _please_. I'll do whatever you want."

He knew it was useless to beg, too. Dark wasn't going to let him go. Dark had plans, some carefully concocted scheme he wanted to carry out, and Mark knew damn well he wasn't going to change that just because he asked him to.

There was nothing he could do. _Nothing_. They were both of them stuck in this, in whatever hell Dark decided to create for them.

And it was all his fault.

"You'll do whatever I want regardless," the demon purred with a certainty that made Mark's gut clench, the little smile curving up his lips just visible as he looked over Jack's red face. "And what I want now is for you to _behave_."

Just the way he _spoke_ made Mark want to curl away, the way his syllables clipped sharp and jagged, only to smooth on the next sound, a roll of barely contained anger, of icy emotions that threatened to rip every bit of warmth out of his very soul. He'd struggled to hold his ground when that voice had echoed through his skull, reverberating through his dreams like a constant nightmare. But in person, when his presence not only whispered through his mind, but commanded the very room . . . it felt like he was suffocating under the weight of him.

The creature released his grip on the Irishman, Jack's head dropping sharply in what Mark assumed was exhaustion, before he was lifting it to glare at the demon again.

"We're going to play another game," Dark told them, spine straightening to a rigid height, looking down at the pair with those merciless eyes. His fingers splayed deftly over the little white box in his hands, flipping it over so Mark could catch a glimpse of a familiar red and blue insignia, the spade on the box reminding him of late nights playing what he and his brother had called "poker".

Dark slipped the playing cards into his pocket as his other hand trailed over the leather strap holding Mark's right arm down.

"And for this game," Dark told them, his tone holding some spark of excitement that made Mark want to shudder from the sound alone. "We're going to move."

Cold fingers hooked under his jaw, forcing his face up to stare at dead black eyes shrouded in a flickering gray haze that made it _so hard_ to focus.

"And you," he purred, voice dangerously soft as he brushed his icy thumb along Mark's jaw. "Are going to behave for me while we do so. Aren't you, Mark?"

It felt like there was a weight pressing in all around him, some force on his skin that sucked out every hint of warmth, of hope or happiness, sieved it through his skin right from his very soul even as it felt like a thousand pounds of water crushing in on every square inch of his body.

He couldn't _breathe_.

Brown eyes flickered almost reflexively to Jack, only a sliver of his face visible around Dark's iron form, but he could see the eye fixed on him. The sheen on his cheek from the tears, the red blotches still mottling his face, lips parted as his breathing finally slowed, but there was still an angry _fire_ in his eyes.

He shook his head, ever so slightly, never breaking eye contact with Mark. And then Dark's fingers were curling cruelly over his jaw, bruising as he forced him to look back at that _wrong_ face, laughing eyes and bitter smile.

" _Aren't_. You."

It wasn't actually a question. Mark wasn't an idiot. _Years_ of time spent with the creature had taught him how he worked, what he expected, and there was no question in Dark's mind of whether Mark would do as he said. Only a question of whether he got to hurt him first.

He was going to get what he wanted either way. And the risk . . . the risk here was so much greater than it had ever been before, the image of the bite across Jack's shoulder already burned into his mind like the brand on his chest.

He had to swallow twice, struggling to wet his dry mouth, before he could speak.

"Yes," he managed in a raw voice, even as the smile that curved up the creature's lips made him want to spit in his face, spite him, just a _little_.

He used to fight him. In the beginning. When he had the strength, when everything was new, and the idea of even some biblical-level evil trying to overtake him had only made him dig in his heels and fight with every bit of bullheaded stubbornness he had in his bones. He wasn't one to sit back and let someone else decide _anything_ about his life, and every bit of pain and torment the creature had inflicted had just made him grit his teeth and fight that much harder, nothing sweeter than the satisfaction of Dark's utter _rage_ at his refusal to play along.

But time had a way of wearing you down. Of tearing down even the strongest walls. And years of anguish under the creature's hand had made it harder and harder to put up a fight.

It was easier to let some things go. It was easier to give in on this or that, and save his fight for the big stuff.

And it was so much easier to give Dark what he wanted than watch him hurt Jack again. Even as he felt the Irishman's eyes watching him, judging him.

What did it matter? At this point, what else mattered besides getting him out of this? Besides protecting the one person here who'd never done anything to deserve this?

The air was cool around his aching wrists as Dark released him, the faint shape of bruises already showing across his skin. The demon stepped back to give him space to stand, but only just, his presence still dominating over Mark's, suffocating and heavy and impossible to breathe under.

The fingers that clamped over the back of his neck made it even harder, icy and iron as he forced him to his feet, and Mark swallowed sharply as he let the thing steer him towards a big wooden door he couldn't see from where he'd been sitting. It _shrieked_ when Dark opened it, the sound making the American flinch back into the creature's grip, before he was being dragged unceremoniously inside.

He saw the chains first.

They weren't massive things, like you might see in movies or as Holloween props. They were simple, maybe two fingers thick, ending in metal bands encased with what looked like leather, and attached to the floor by heavy anchors. Their use seemed pretty clear, the spacing between them just enough for a person to stand, or kneel, the bands around their wrist keeping them in one general section of the floor.

That was . . . oddly tame. He'd almost expected the room to be dominated by some medieval torture device, or a surgeons table straight out of some bad b-flick. But no. It was almost empty. Just the chains on the floor, and a low table, neatly organized with-

Mark faltered, breath hitching as he took in the items laid out on the worn wood of the coffee table. The knife was the easiest one to recognize, a sharp, clear silver that stood out harshly against the dark stained wood. Long and curved and cruel, and Mark felt the way his knees wanted to give out just at the mere sight of it.

The brand had been one thing, held in cold fingers, intent on causing immediate damage. But the knife just laid out on the table, neat and organized, benign but with obvious purpose and intent, it was just . . . it was so much worse. His eyes flickered to the other objects - a smaller blade, a leather-bound rod, something that looked like a _cattle prod_ , a . . . a whip.

"Kneel, Mark."

Dark's voice crackled through him like electricity, cold but alive, the excitement dancing on his dead tongue so clear to him then it was like he'd branded it on his skin. Dark was going to torture him. He'd known that, he'd know that the second he woke up tied to the damn chair. He knew the second Dark was in power he was going to take whatever sick revenge he could manage, rip every scream his body knew how to make, and some it didn't, out of his throat, until he finally killed him.

But having it laid out so coldly in front of him, clinical and emotionless, a simple torture room with no dramatic tassels or strings. Just chains and bare instruments, ready to make him beg for an end, any end.

Dark was going to torture him. And it was going to hurt more than anything he'd ever suffered before. And he had no idea how to stop it. And-

"I said, _kneel_ ," that cold voice growled in his ear. And he almost did, panic rising in his chest, lost, the fear and hopelessness making it so hard to _think_ , and his body just wanted to cave to the voice that had tormented him for so long.

And then his eyes slid to the side, catching sight of the other set of chains, just out of his reach, identical cold bonds waiting to restrain their prey.

Jack.

Jack, too.

A single moment of clarity washed over him, the panic restrained to his heart as his mind focused on the reality, on what Dark wanted to happen.

Jack, on his knees, pale skin red with cracks and cuts, painted in bruises and blood as Dark stood over him. The flash of the knife as Dark forced his face up, looked him in the eye as he told him he was going to _carve his name in his back_ -

He didn't think about the elbow he threw back into Dark's face, or linger on the satisfying _crack_ of his nose. He just spun, legs surprisingly strong under him as he turned back towards the door, bolting, his mind an echoing chamber of _get to Jack, get to Jack, get to Jack!_

He couldn't let him do this. He couldn't let him hurt him. It was his fault in the first place, and he just couldn't, he _couldn't_ -

Iron fingers caught his wrist with a kind of crushing ease, yanking him back with enough force to send electric pain lancing through his shoulder, his back, as he twisted in a useless attempt to escape. He'd barely gotten a few _feet_ , he couldn't be caught already. Mark threw a blind punch, feeling his fist glance off a cheek or a jawbone, before cold fingers caught that wrist too, and he was being dragged back towards those chains.

"No, no, _no_ , Dark, don't, _please_ -"

The backhand caught him hard across the cheek, cracking a myriad of colors across his vision, blackness trying to creep in around the edges as he fought the pull of iron hands. He was on his back before he knew what had happened, cold concrete rough and scraping against his bare back as he twisted under Dark's weight.

His mind was still racing, the panic that had been quarantined in his chest for a moment _exploding_ out as he realized how stuck he was under Dark just then, how impossible it was to break from his grip. And then there was a knee pressed into his wrist, holding him down, hard enough to separate the twin bones of his forearm, until he was shrieking in pain and panic, struggling to kick, to twist, to bite or scratch or _anything_ as Dark snapped the first shackle around his wrist.

" _Stop_ , you fuck, fucking _bastard_ , _stop_ , _STOP!_ "

His voice was barely coherent by the end, screaming, on the verge of hysterics as he fought with every drop of strength in his body. And not a bit of it made any difference as Dark snapped the other restraint shut, the sound of the metal creaking like some kind of death song as the whites of his eyes flashed in the washed-out room.

Stuck. He was stuck. Helpless. Helpless to do anything but _watch_ as Dark took out his revenge against him, dragging Jack into the mix because _Mark_ had been stupid enough to love him.

_It wasn't fair._

A hand slapped down hard over his mouth, catching the shrieking still ripping from his throat and forcing his eyes up to Dark's face as he stared down at him with the all the empathy of a guillotine.

"Now, Mark," that dead voice crooned, syllables drawn out over his tongue like a painter's brush stroke. "I would . . . _encourage_ you to behave. This is a game, if you'll remember."

His eyes were black. Not just dark, but _black_ , flat disks devoid of color or variation, like someone had simply cut two rings out of the world, and only a void existed there now. And they were staring down at him with such . . . callousness. Sadistically apathetic, a desire only to inflict pain, just . . . _hateful_.

"And, if you'll remember, games can be _won_." Dark paused, the very edges of his lips twitching up in the ghost of a smile as he reached up to brush a bit of hair from Mark's face, hand still clasped firmly over his mouth. "You're the only one who can protect him, Mark. Remember that."

Hateful. Cruel. Not an ounce of empathy in those eyes as the creature leaned back, legs unfolding to bring him back to his standing height with the kind of grace that was more eerie than beautiful.

Mark coughed as the hand released him, sucking in a breath too sharply and choking on his own saliva, pulse thundering in his ear as he rolled onto his side. He was wheezing as he tried to get his legs under him, the sound of Dark's retreating steps like stones dropping in his chest, and his newly aching head was still echoing with weaker cries of _help Jack, help Jack, help him_.

" _Jack_ ," he croaked, the cry too quiet between his choked breaths to be heard, but his lips still framed the sound. " _Jack_."

He could hear Dark speaking in the other room, a low rumble without discernable syllables, and just out of his line of sight through the door. But the jangle of chains, the sound of Jack's voice spitting something virulent, and the heavy _thud_ of something hitting the ground had him jerking to the end of his short chains, struggling to suck in enough of a breath to cry out again.

Jack's voice got closer, and Mark's heart jumped to his throat as he watched Dark enter the room again, this time with his fingers bunched tight into the hems of Jack's jeans, dragging his partially-bare form across the concrete floor with impossible ease, Jack spitting profanities as he struggled to keep his bare back from being shredded on the rough ground.

Dark dropped him the moment they were between the second set of chains, turning with apathetic grace to drop heavily onto the Irishman's form, pinning him with effortless iron strength as he shackled him to the restraints and stepped away as one might lash their horse to a post.

"Now," the demon purred as he stepped around to the other side of the table, fingers running over hardwood as Jack dragged himself up to his knees with crude curses. "As I said, we're going to play a game."

" _Fuck_ you," Jack spit sharply.

Dark didn't even look up at him as he answered with a flat, "Later."

The cards were in his hand again, slipping from his pocket gracefully to be opened with long gray fingers, the box set purposefully onto the coffee table with a perfectionist's touch.

"The game is simple," he explained in a voice slowly picking up emotion again, a dripping, sadistic hunger bleeding into every word as Mark tried to cut his attention between the looming creature and Jack's already battered form. There was a large scrape across his shoulder, red and irritated, but not quite bleeding, from Dark's transportation methods, and Mark's gut was churning as he glanced back at the tools on the table, knowing it was going to get so much worse.

How was he supposed to protect him like this? There was no way. It was _impossible_. He was helpless, they both were, completely at the mercy of the mad demon, and Mark wanted nothing more than to squeeze his eyes shut and open them back in his bed in a world where Jack was nothing but a distant, untouchable wonder.

"I will give you three cards," he said slowly, eyes fixed on Mark, as if Jack was just an audience to their conversation as he carefully laid out three cards face down on the table. "And you will choose who these cards go to. You, or Jack."

He paused to adjust them, shifting them to perfection, equidistant and absolutely parallel without his cold eyes ever leaving Mark's face.

"Each card represents a punishment," he continued, his syllables pronounced so precisely they seemed to stab at his ears, like he was yelling even as he spoke in a cool rumble. "The number being the count, the suit the type of punishment."

Icy fingers deftly flipped the first card over to show an eight of hearts. "Eight lashes." The second a three of spades. "Three cuts." The third a queen of diamonds. "The highest setting on the baton."

Gray lips turned up in a wicked smile as he turned his black eyes back up to Mark, the sadistic _joy_ held there filling his chest with ice. His fingers lingered on the last card, brushing over the face of the familiar queen as his eyes shuttered darkly.

"You must each get a card every round," he murmured, and there was a sick pleasure in his voice as he spoke, a glint in his eye that made Mark want to retch. "Do you understand, Mark?"

Mark swallowed, mouth painfully dry as he fought down that clawing panic in his throat. Yes, he understood. He understood what Dark was doing, the position Dark was putting him in, the weight Dark was putting on his shoulders. He got to pick. He got to decide where the pain went. He got to be the one to decide who felt what.

He wanted to run. He wanted to be anywhere other than here. He wanted to shut down and just stop working, to give up, to simply lie there and take whatever Dark wanted to give until he eventually tired of his games and killed him.

But he couldn't. He couldn't because Dark was right.

He was the only one who could protect Jack.

"We're not playing your stupid games," Jack hissed, yanking uselessly at the chains clamped around his wrists, and Mark had to close his eyes, stomach roiling as shame burned up the back of his neck. This was his fault. All of it. And Jack might still not understand, but Mark did. Mark knew there was absolutely no use fighting this, no matter what the Irishman thought. They might get out. Maybe. They might survive. But Dark would do whatever he wanted with them first, use them up and _choose_ to throw them out.

"You don't have to," Dark purred, amusement dripping from his voice as his black eyes stayed fixed on the American. "But Mark will. Won't you, Mark?"

"Yes," Mark breathed past his cracked lips, voice hoarse and barely there as he stared at the cards in front of him. How long was this going to go on? How much torment was Dark going to put them through before he let them rest again?

How many times would he have to hear Jack scream before this was over?

"Good boy," Dark crooned, eliciting that sick feeling in his gut again as the creature flicked the cards back into his hands and started shuffling the deck with silent grace. His eyes shifted to the Irishman as his hands worked, that smile twitching up his lips again as he gave him an almost patronizing look. "Jack, do feel free to put your opinion in. But, in the end, it will be up to Mark who receives what."

Jack didn't answer, cold, furious eyes staring the demon down without a flicker of fear, and Mark had a split second to marvel at the man's absolute strength and resolve before the sight of Dark laying cards against the table pulled his attention like a stone tied to him in the ocean.

"Are you ready, Mark?" Dark asked with a broken smile as he laid down the last card, eyes sparking with excitement as shadows seemed to flicker around the edges of his form.

Mark swallowed twice, struggling to try to dispell the weight on his tongue so that he could answer before he gave up and nodded instead.

Dark turned the first card, black eyes flickering down to take in the bright red outline of hearts, and the cruel shape of the seven across its face.

"Seven lashes," Dark purred, his voice dripping with a heady glee as his other hand came out to stroke over the whip almost absently.

_Seven lashes_. Seven times one of them would be struck with that cruel looking thing. Couldn't they split skin? Mark couldn't remember, only vague memories of Hollywood depictions on pirate ships and in period films, malicious devices meant to inflict maximum pain for minimum damage.

He could remember the screams so clearly though, the movies they were in some distant fuzzy things, but the _screams_ were so clear.

He'd been hit with a crop before, child's play compared to this torture tool, and still enough to have him crying out in surprised pain.

The skin of his back prickled just at the thought, and he balked just at the thought of the lash landing on Jack's ivory skin.

"Who gets it, Mark?" Dark crooned, and there was definitely excitement in his voice now, a pitch of electric exuberance as his fingers wrapped slowly around the hilt of the leather-bound device, lifting it oh, so slowly from the table and beginning a careful journey around to the pair. "Who do I get to mark up first? Who gets to wear the first badge of _pain_."

Mark shuddered, muscles spasming involuntarily as he choked on the decision. There was no way out of this. He wanted a way out, but there wasn't one. They were chained to the floor, trapped and stuck and at the sadistic bastard's mercy as he stood over them with triumphant eyes, his outline flickering like a candle in a breeze.

"Dark-"

"Choose, Mark," the demon murmured, pacing slowly around him, the whip brushing so gently across his arm. "Choose, or I'll choose for you. And I think we both know my preference, little dove."

"Me," he croaked, the sound so choked up and broken he was surprised he managed to make it at all. But Dark understood with ease, coming to stop in front him, hovering over him like a monolith of spite and hatred, the bitter cold of his fingers like ice as they stroked under his jaw.

"So _brave_ ," the creature breathed, and Mark knew it was mocking, biting and merciless.

He was out of his line of sight far too fast, Mark's heart picking up to pound erratically in his chest as that cold voice came from behind him, invisible and looming and promising nothing but pain.

"Do feel free to _scream_."

"Mark-"

Mark heard it for just a second, one quick beat, the quickest syllable slipped from Jack's lips, and it seemed to fill the air in the brief moment of silence before the first strike landed.

It knocked the breath out of him before anything else, a hard force, like being hit by a rock, or slamming into the ground, ripping through him like a gunshot, and for just an instant, it was only that blunt force. And then the pain followed sharp on its heels, like fire, lancing across his back, making him suck in a hissed breath.

But it wasn't near as bad as the brand.

Mark found himself releasing the breath slowly, with the slightest hint of hope. It hurt. It hurt a lot, but it was a tolerable kind of pain. He could do six more. That wasn't so bad.

The second followed quickly, a brutal force heavy against his back, his teeth gritting to stop the little grunt before it could get past his lips.

The third landed over the first strike, laying out a new strip of fire that had him sucking in that breath again, the burn making it harder to breathe as he arched away from the blow.

By the fourth, he was realizing it was only going to get worse. Each new strike had a fresh fire laying over the existing burn, adding to it, compounding it, until Mark was gasping each breath, and the fifth drew a cut-off cry from him, his lips too slow to stop it before it reached the air.

He didn't make a noise on the sixth, gritting his teeth harder, holding his breath as the hurt washed through him, but it took considerable effort to hold it back, squeezing his eyes shut and shying away as he heard the _whoosh_ of the final blow coming to _cut_ across his back like a burning blade.

It was only seven lashes, seven little lashes, and still he wasn't certain of the count as Dark stilled behind him, breath baited as he waited for another blow. Had they gotten through all seven? It had just been seven, right? His heart was racing in his chest, his ears strained to hear Dark's movements around the rushing beating, and he flinched sharply even at the soothing coolness of the demon's hand against one of the marks.

"Well done, little dove," he crooned in a soft voice, eerily close as he traced one of the raw lines, before he stepped away to place the whip back on the little table. "That's one card done."

The relief was a heavy thing, weighing him down as he sank back onto his knees. His fingers slowly released the harsh grip they'd bitten around the chains, pressing indentations of each link into his palm, as he took slow, deep breaths, willing himself to sound normal. To sound unaffected. Like what Dark did didn't mean anything.

He wasn't sure why that mattered right then, but something deep in the aching pounding of his mind told him it was important.

"Mark?"

"I'm okay." The words were mechanical, mouth shaping the rough sounds without conscious thought before he'd even registered the question. It took him a moment longer to get his head together enough to look up at Jack, taking in the tight lines around his mouth, the creases around his eyes, the way he was looking at him like he was trying to work through a puzzle. "I'm okay, I promise."

Those pretty blue eyes were murky and clouded, darting to glance down at his shoulder, and Mark wondered if he could see the marks from there. Were there marks? There had to be right? His back was burning, not the high sting he was expecting, but a raw burn that ached and clawed and made his skin crawl.

"Are you ready for the next, Mark?"

Mark glanced back at Dark, standing like a black monolith behind the low table, waiting patiently with the ghost of a smile curving up his lips, and his gut flipped just looking at him. That had just been a taste. There was more. There was so much more, and the weight of that was starting to settle over Mark like a heavy blanket, suffocating and thick.

"We'll split it even," Jack said, low and rough, and Mark looked up sharply, taking in the tension in the man as he glared at the floor, mouth set in a hard line.

"What?" he asked, his own voice steadier than he'd expected. Jack's mouth twitched, and hot blue eyes darted up to glare with a viciousness he hadn't expected to ever see out of those baby blues at the towering darkness on the other side of the table.

"We'll split it," he repeated, his voice a little stronger, a little harder, and Mark could see the way his shoulders were setting, the decision defining itself in his posture as he stared down the demon. "You get a card then I get a card. Doesn't matter what it is. Don't change it."

The Irishman's lip pulled back in what Mark could only call a snarl as he raised his voice above the murmur he'd been speaking at.

"We don't have to play his game."

Anxious brown eyes snapped to Dark, fearing for the man who was so wilfully looking death in the face and spitting at it. Dark had already reprimanded him twice - he was going to get harsher if he had to do it a third time.

But the demon seemed only faintly amused, lip still curled up in that ghost of a smile, before black eyes slipped to Mark, eyebrow raised.

"Are you ready for the next, Mark," he repeated, not a question this time, just a patient reminder. A shiver ran over the American's skin, his back burning as his heart pounded, and he swallowed before he nodded, not trusting his voice anymore.

The idea was smart enough. Follow the rules but don't give Dark the satisfaction of playing his game. But there was a weight in Mark's gut, a knowledge that Dark was going to get what he wanted. Whatever he wanted, he would get. He was patient and he was clever and he was cruel.

They weren't going to win.

"Okay," he murmured softly. Because he didn't believe it could work, but he would give this to Jack. As long as he could, he would give this to Jack. Even if the image of his stripped skin, bleeding body, red eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life.

However long that was.

Dark turned the card over carefully, precise and graceful, heavy lashes falling over his eyes as he looked down at the neat black shapes.

"Six of spades," he purred in a rich voice, tumbling over his lips with a cruel kind of pleasure. Those black pits darted up to catch Mark's, watching him as his smile curled harder, gray lips curving softly as he crafted his bitter words. "Who gets the knife, Mark?"

Mark's stomach rolled sharply, like someone had reached inside him and yanked at his guts. Cuts. Dark was going to put a knife to Jack, split his pale skin to mark him up how he wanted. The idea was so vile on his tongue, abhorrent, and his mind was already racing to find a way out. To find a path that didn't lead to one of those wicked blades piercing his flesh, that didn't mean hearing Jack fight back whimpers or cries of pain.

Jack wanted them to split it evenly, and that made sense. That made sense, but Jack didn't _have_ to take this one. Mark could take it, and Jack could take whatever the last card was. He didn't _have_ to let him take this. He didn't have to choose.

But what if the last card was worse? What if the last card was too high, a ten on . . . what was the beating one? Clubs? Dark had such a sick sense of humor. He could picture his smirk, his sadistic, twisted smirk as he purred "ten of clubs" hefting that leather rod as he prepared to _beat_ the Irishman, and Mark just wanted it to stop.

It made sense. It made sense to do it the way Jack said. Don't think of it as a choice. Let it be Dark's cruelty and that was it. It shouldn't be either of their faults. It should be Dark's, and Dark's alone, and Mark _knew_ that, even as he swallowed his own name down over and over again. He wanted to take it, he wanted to bear the brunt, he wanted to _save him_. But he knew he was right.

He could see the Irishman straightening out of the corner of his eye, knees shuffling as he took a deep breath. Readying himself. Readying himself to feel the wicked kiss of a blade carving through his skin, readying himself for the pain and humiliation that would come with it, readying himself for Dark's cold touch as he-

_"-carve my name into his back."_

Mark blanched, the sudden realization ripping through him like a wave of nausea, gripping his gut in an icy vice as he suddenly pictured that name scored into his skin in ragged red lines, there forever, even if they survived.

Was six cuts enough to make his name? It was enough to start it, in any case, and Mark was suddenly certain that was Dark's plan. That little cruel smile tugging at his lips as he watched the American struggle with the decision, knowing look in his eye as he waited for the name he _knew_ he was going to get.

"Me," Jack spat after a moment, as Mark struggled with his leaden tongue, each breath feeling like water in his lungs as he fought with himself. "Me, alright? Give it to me, Mark."

Mark was shaking his head before he was even aware of the action, a short, broken, " _No_ ," slipping past his lips as fought back the panic. He couldn't protect him like this. Dark had lied. There was nothing he could do, because that third card could be spades once more, cruel and sharp and waiting to brand Jack forever, and he couldn't watch that, he _couldn't_.

" _Mark_ ," Jack hissed, his tone pleading but sharp. "Don't play his game. This one's mine, and the next one's yours. Don't make a decision, just let-"

"No," Mark repeated, swallowing as he tried to speak clearer. "Not this one. Not this one, Jack."

"Mark-"

"He's going to carve his name into you."

Jack only faltered for a moment, something flashing through his eyes before he shook his head and continued. "It doesn't matter what he does-"

" _Yes, it does_ ," he hissed back, eyes pleading as he looked at him, begging him to understand. "Yes it does, Jack, I can't, I _can't_ -"

"I need an answer, Mark." Dark's voice was smooth, cool and collected, like he was a gameshow host gently reminding a contestent they had a time limit, and Mark was just struggling to breathe.

"Me," Jack growled in annoyance, shifting forward on his knees in the little space his chains gave him. "Me, alright? Just get it over with, yeh sadistic fuck."

" _Mark_ ," Dark urged, dragging out the name in a low purr as his fingers traced over the blade before plucking it from the table with effortless grace, taking slow steps around the table, around Jack's side, closer to the Irishman, closer to putting his mark on the man forever.

"Me," Mark gasped sharply, and the second the word was passed his lips, he couldn't stop the rest from following, an almost panicked babbling as Dark stared him down with those black eyes. "Me, on me, not Jack, me, please, don't . . . not him . . ."

Dark's smile was slow to build, but rich and malicious, a sadistic twist to the curve of his lips as he turned slowly from Jack to pace towards Mark.

"A hero," Dark rumbled, and the mockery was clear in every sumptuous word that fell from his lips. "Saving his damsel in distress."

Mark cringed, turning his face away in shame as he listened to the sound of Dark's steady approach. He wasn't a hero. For all his "selflessness" in taking the brunt of the punishment, he knew he was only making things worse.

And he knew Jack wouldn't understand why.

Dark's fingers in his hair made him jump, jerking away from the touch in revulsion, but helpless to resist as impossible strength pulled him back to face the Irishman, Dark's other hand on his shoulder as he leaned down to speak to him.

"I don't think your damsel is happy to be saved," Dark purred in delight.

He was right, too. Mark would have known that without looking at the frustrated, incredulous look on Jack's face. He was annoyed, confused, aggravated at Mark's stubborness, he was sure. The look of almost . . . _betrayal_ in those blue eyes felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He wanted to explain, to make him understand. But the words weren't there, his mind empty and lost as he stared back at him with pleading eyes.

_Please don't hate me. I know. I'm sorry._

He wasn't expecting the cold kiss of the blade against his back so quickly, quick and sharp and splitting in a way completely alien to him. He'd expected Dark to grandstand, to tease and play with him for a moment before he got down to carving him up like a turkey. But instead, it was just a silent slice across one of the raw lines in his back, and Mark didn't have time to stop the hiss, or the way his face twisted up in shock.

It wasn't really the cut that hurt. Like the whip, the first slide didn't really feel like much, too fast for him to recognize it as anything besides cold. But the way it scraped over the tender skin of the whip marks hurt more than he cared to admit, and when Dark pressed the blade against his back again, maybe a half inch from the first cut, he felt the way the cut pulled open from the pressure, and the first hint of the pain hit him.

He was hardly aware of the cuts themselves, just quick cold lines that stung on his back, but slowly built with an aching rawness that made him feel sick. His skin was crawling with every slip of the blade, like the way nails on a chalkboard just filled him with a nameless awful feeling, like something was wrong that he couldn't put words to. He could feel the blood well up around the last one, the blade lingering and slipping in it as the demon traced it over the curve of his shoulder.

And then it was over. Not as brutally painful as the whip, but the _wrongness_ of it was worse, hitching up his breathing, making it hard to see as he tried to swallow the first tastes of panic down.

"There," Dark crooned, and Mark pulled away at the soothing sound so close to his ear. "That wasn't bad at all, was it?"

No. No, maybe it wasn't, maybe compared to the whipping it hadn't made him grit his teeth and struggle to stay silent. But it was still worse. In all the ways that mattered, it was worse.

It took more effort than he cared to admit to turn his eyes back up to Jack, his stomach still twisted up violently, and he couldn't tell if he was relieved or crushed to find the Irishman looking resolutely at the ground. His brow was furrowed, his mouth carving a harsh line into his face as he stared at a crack in the floor with a rancorous kind of intensity.

"Two down," Dark told them in that smooth, black honey voice, and Mark dragged his eyes back up, gut flipping sharply as he turned his attention back to the cards on the table. "Just one left."

Gray fingers stroked slowly over the faded blue pattern on the back of the card, the demon's smile muted, but an energy seemed to be buzzing right under his skin, and Mark felt sick. He felt sick because he knew why.

"Now Jack," the demon purred, and the excitement was trickling back into his voice, the cool facade he'd been holding for the last few mintues started to slip as his nostrils flared sharply. "Since Mark so _bravely_ took the first two cards for you. And since each of you must receive a card each round-" Black eyes flickered back up to find the blue orbs Jack had raised in return. "-this one's for you."

Mark's throat was tight as he watched the demon flip the card gracefully, fear and guilt choking him as he strained to see what it was. Whatever it was, Jack would have to bear it because of him. And there was nothing he could do to stop that.

Dark's fingers trailed over the card he revealed with obvious delight, stroking softly over the sharp lines of the diamonds. Seven. Seven of diamonds. Not as bad as it could be, but bad. What had diamonds been again? Beatings? The whip? He couldn't seem to keep the suits straight in his head, and he swallowed as his eyes darted to Jack, and the way the Irishman was frowning at the card.

"Seven of diamonds," Dark narrated, and Mark's gut roiled sharply as he picked up the thing that looked like a cattle prod.

Oh. He'd almost forgotten about that, too fixated on the idea of bruised and bloodied skin to think about electrocution.

_Electrocution_. God, just _thinking_ the word made him feel sick, mouth going dry as he watched Dark pace slowly around the table once more, towards Jack, towards a pale canvas of skin for him to work on.

"Have you ever been shocked, Jack?" Dark asked mildly, turning the weapon in his hands with an almost casual air, ignoring Mark as the American watched the pair with a helpless kind of desperation. Jack glared up at the demon with sharp eyes, and for a moment, Mark thought he might spit on him, just lash out with that fiery defiance that seemed to be hardwired into his bones, before his lips pulled back over words instead.

"I'm not playing your games, Dark," he spit sharply, stubborn and obstinate and vicious as he glared up at the man from his knees.

Mark saw the backhand coming, lips parting to shout a warning that didn't come in time as Dark cracked his hand across the Irishman's face, snapping his head back with the strength of the blow, and ripping a virulant curse from Jack's lips.

"Answer my question, Jack."

Jack glared up at him again, seething through flared nostrils as he breathed in heavy breaths. He seemed to fight over the words for a moment, mouth twisting up in frustration and something else, before he finally spoke through his teeth.

"Once."

Dark's lips tugged a little higher in amusement at the one word answer.

"What by?" he asked smoothly, rolling the words with obvious delight. Jack seemed to struggle again, a muscle above his lip twitching before he parted them once more.

"Outlet."

Dark smiled broader, rolling the long baton in his hand as he paced slowly around the kneeling man.

"Well. I'm sorry to tell you, but this will be a little worse than that."

Jack's lip curled up like he was going to a spit a response back, something irritated and sharp, before Dark pressed the end of the long baton into the meat of his shoulder, and Jack went silent, flinching away sharply.

He didn't shock him right away. Or, at least, Mark was fairly certain he didn't shock him. Jack wouldn't still be breathing steady like that, his tongue wouldn't be able to dart out and wet his lips, his hands wouldn't be able to tug at his shackles so softly. No, Dark waited, just holding the weapon against his back, two little prongs digging into the meat of his shoulder, until Jack was leaning away from it, ever so slightly. Shying away was a better term. Like he couldn't help the way his body was trying to escape from the threat, until Dark's cool voice rumbled through the room again.

"Take a deep breath, Jack."

There was a snap, a loud crack that set off every instinctual warning in Mark's brain as hints of blue light flashed against the Irishman's skin. But the cry was worse, a pained sound ripped from Jack's stubborn lips, cut off quickly as his body stiffened sharply, and then it was just silence and the crackling of the stun gun.

Mark had never seen someone be shocked like this before. Probably some distant memory of a police dash cam where someone got TASERed, but never like this. He'd expected a more . . . dramatic display. Seizing limbs and screams, not silence and painful rigidity. Jack didn't flail or cry or seize. He just shook, body inhumanly tight, as Dark pressed the prods down against his skin and let the electricity crackle across it.

It probably only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity, the silence choking as time trickled by, and Jack didn't make a sound. Until finally Dark released him from the stun gun's grasp, and the pale man all but crumpled.

He sank down completely, crashing onto his own legs, only to slide off them and land heavily on the cold floor. His shoulders slumped, chains tinkling across the ground as his head lolled forward, and Mark watched every heavy heave of his chest as he sucked in ragged breaths to prove to himself the man wasn't dead.

Jack made a sound then, a soft, broken noise that twisted up Mark's chest like spinning a fork in spaghetti.

"Jack?" he asked in a shaky voice, a weight like iron dragging down his insides as he watched the Irishman slowly drag his head up, chest rising and falling in heavy motions even as his eyes stayed on the floor.

"I'm fine," Jack rasped. It sounded like he tried to spit the words, but his body wouldn't let him, coming out like sandpaper against his tongue as Dark paced slowly around him.

"Are you, Jack?" Dark asked in a smooth, poisonous voice. He paused in front of him, looking him over for a moment before he sank slowly into a crouch, almost eye-level now as he watched with that same little smile that seemed to hold more euphoric pleasure than it let on. "You look like you had a little . . . _trouble_ with that one."

Mark saw it again, that spark in the Irishman, that burning _fight_ that was letting him get through this impossible weight without being crushed, rushing along his limbs and making muscles tense before he spat again. He didn't seem to think the action through, just some jerk of the muscles in his mouth, before he was spitting, an angry hiss of air behind it, like a threatened animal, and Dark leaned away from the spray with a laugh.

"Jack, you really are going to have to learn-" And suddenly Dark was standing at his full height again, rising so quickly and smoothly as to be inhuman. "-when to _yield_."

Jack's eyes had followed Dark up, tired and shaken, but sharp on his face as he pulled his lip back in a snarl, too fixated to notice the demon's other hand bringing the baton back up to press into his chest once more.

He didn't shock him. But he didn't need to. Whether Jack had meant to or not, he shied away harshly from the touch, a little gasp on his breath as he inevitably waited for the pain to blossom out again. His body caved around the touch, trying to arch away from it, and his eyes squeezed shut with a soft sound as Dark pressed just a little harder.

"Dark," Mark begged for what felt like the thousandth time, lips dry and mouth drier as he listened to the short, panicked breaths Jack was trying to reign in.

The demon held it there, for just a moment, considering his captive with a soft, twisted smile, before pulling the baton away once more.

"I think it's time for a break," he purred as Jack sagged back onto the floor again, head hung low as he tried to get his breathing in check. Mark bit his tongue, watching the Irishman as he got his knees back under him again, and he flinched when he realized how close Dark had gotten to him, cool fingers running softly over the raw marks on his back. "You _have_ earned it, after all."

Dark turned back to the table, placing the stun baton in its place once more, deft fingers taking a moment to align it perfectly with the other torture devices lain out like cutlery for a meal, before making a soft noise of contentment.

"Take a moment," he told them as he stepped between them, not sparing either of them a glance. "Catch your breath. Console each other. We'll play another hand when I return."

And with that he was gone, the crisp sound of his footsteps fading in the cool basement as he left the pair to consider the idea of another round of torment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SPECIFIC TRIGGER WARNINGS: Whipping, cutting, electrocution, general violence and threats of beatings.
> 
> I make no promises on how long it'll take to get the next chapter out, but hopefully not nine months.


End file.
